


exactly where they'd fall

by jester_lavore



Series: Bury The Hatchet [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 71st Hunger Games, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, i am aware that theres no alive female victor in 7 for the 75th, i have ideas babey, i have plans :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 46,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jester_lavore/pseuds/jester_lavore
Summary: Johanna Mason is a triptych; painted in threes. A puzzle half-complete, the pieces eluding the final image. Her odds are 50-1. Her skin is streaked with blood. She cries at the Tribute Parade. An axe goes flying. Her yellow dress glints. She wins.The life and times of Johanna Mason, told partially through the eyes of herself and her mentor for the 71st Hunger Games.
Series: Bury The Hatchet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844569
Comments: 34
Kudos: 65





	1. the girl in the yellow dress

**Chapter One – The Girl in the Yellow Dress**

**Hazel**

Truth be told, the dress is ugly.

Cosima compliments it, of course, and I almost have to stifle a laugh. It’s a fluffy, yellow thing, with layers upon layers of material to puff up the hem and sleeves the size of beachballs- the kind that I’ve seen Capitol children play with on artificial sandy shores. The girl herself doesn’t suit it at all; tanned skin, long brown hair in a ponytail and dark eyes that fix on Cosima, tearfully glazed over with such intense emotion that I’m almost entirely unsure what they convey. I’ve forgotten her first name already, but her surname, ‘Mason’, gives me enough to go by. She isn’t rich, that’s for sure. Those with enough privilege in Seven to forego hard labour tend to have different surnames than the typical Oakes’ and Mason’s that make up the majority of the district. I can’t tell if she’s any good or strong under all that fabric. Judging by the tears, it seems unlikely.

Cosima is quick to recover, however, when the girl barely mutters an inaudible response to her compliment. There's not much to admire her for, but her ability to keep the ball rolling no matter what’s thrown her way, is one of her few merits. As far as I know, she’s always been like that – ever since her first reaping, when Ginger Pickett had called her a ‘lavender whore’ live on stage. I suppose after that, everything is a cakewalk to her.

As soon as she walks to the other side of the stage to pick out whatever poor boy is going to be sent to the slaughter and I know the cameras aren’t going to be on me, I lean in to whisper to my partner-in-mentoring, Blight.

“Dibs on the girl.”

He looks a little surprised but shrugs his shoulders. “Her? Suit yourself.”

I do pick up the name of the boy, once he is called. Ainsley Coutts. It takes him a while to stagger up from the fifteen-year-old section, and when he does, it's not positive. He’s tall, yes, but painfully skinny, with pale skin and slightly blue lips. A Flinch addiction, from the looks of it. You’ll see those types around the outskirts of Seven; the majority orphans or jobless, walking around in a dazed stupor. Next to me, I hear Blight mutter out a curse. Internally, I do the same. It looks like Seven is doomed for another hopeless year.

If Cosima feels the same way as we do, she doesn’t betray it on her face. Instead she grabs both of the tribute’s hands – the girl looking at her in some sort of daze, and the boy barely responding – and holds them up high.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, your District Seven Tributes for the Seventy-First Hunger Games, Johanna Mason and Ainsley Coutts.”

Blight takes that moment, as the audience is distracted, to give me a sad smile.

“It’s alright, Hazel,” he says. “There’s always next year.”

I nod, tightly, as if it doesn’t affect me. Sometimes I wonder how he can be so nonchalant about this, but I remember that he has over a decade of this under his belt, and I’ve barely had three years to get used to mentoring. As much as Blight is family, part of me hopes I’ll never end up like him. Another part of me hopes I’ll end up just as hard and unsurprised.

* * *

As it turns out, Johanna Mason is anything _but_ unsurprising.

I find her in the living cart roughly about an hour after the train leaves, gazing out the window. She’s changed out of the dress, and instead dons a light green sweater and baggy trousers. Her eyes are fixed outside the window, watching the lights of our home district fade in the distance of the quickly-darkening night.

“It’s a funny sight, isn’t it?” I remark, and point to the empty seat opposite her. She says nothing, but shrugs, and as I decide to sit, her eyes meet mine. They’re a peculiar colour; so dark that they’re almost black. I can see myself reflected in them, two tiny versions of me peering down at her curiously. It’s almost frightening, and I feel myself wanting to look away.

We sit there for a moment, in silence, watching until District Seven fades into obscurity. I remember watching it disappear before my own games, my face pressed so close to the glass I could barely breathe, grappling for what I expected would be my final memory of home. I wonder of Johanna feels the same; watching her life be stripped away from her open palms. I’d wondered the same about the other tributes I’d sat in this very car with; Quinn, Farrah, Vago, Ashley. Felicis. For all of them, that sight had really been their last glimpse of home.

“Are you afraid?” I ask, after a moment.

“I would be stupid not to be,” she says, and I’m taken aback. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak and it comes out far lower, far more biting than I would have expected. Those brown eyes lock with mine, fierce and intense, and for the first time in my past three years as mentor, I see a fire behind them.

“Good,” I say. “Fear will keep you alive.”

She scoffs at that. “Fear won’t do anything. The only thing that will keep me alive is if every other tribute in the arena drops dead.”

I suppose she’s right. “Still, it’s a good place to start.”

I take a look at her, up and down. She’s seventeen – a good age, but odds are a good half of tributes, including the inner districts, will be the same age, or older – and lean. The fabric of the sweater hides her shoulders, but I can tell they’re strong and muscled. If she’s been working in the woods, she’ll be good with an axe. If she’s lucky enough to have one in the arena. But we’ve had axes for the past four years. I wouldn’t bet on this being her lucky break.

“Does crying at the reaping make you look weak?” she asks, all of a sudden, and I almost jump at the demand in her voice.

“Plenty of tributes cry at the reaping.”

“Be honest.”

I sigh. “Yes. It does. Especially in that dress of yours. You’re at a disadvantage from the start.”

She looks pleased. “Good.”

“Excuse me?” I lean in.

“Good. I want to be underestimated.”

I frown. This is an angle I’ve heard of once or twice, but I’ve never seen it played out in the Games in recent history, by virtue of it never actually working out in the tribute’s favour. It tends to go one of two ways; either the tribute gets chopped off by fellow competitors early on, when they’re seen as an early target, or they end up dying once the lack of sponsorships rears its ugly head. Plenty of talented, durable tributes die every year because of starvation or exposure.

“I know…” she continues, seeing the look on my face. “But if I make it out of the initial murder spree and hunt and kill someone early on, they’ll know that I’m good, right? That it was just a strategy?”

“Predicting the Capitol’s response to anything is a risky move. But, yes, in theory, that could work.”

“Good.” She crosses her arms and leans back in the chair.

“So, I suppose what you’re asking is for me to keep this on the down-low?”

“If you can.”

“Well,” I sigh. The strength of resolve in Johanna is intimidating. “We’ll keep it from Cosima - bless her heart but she can’t keep a secret to save her life – Blight and your stylist will need to know, but…”

“No,” she interrupts. “Nobody else. Just you.”

I frown. “Johanna, you need to understand, this is an incredible delicate angle. You need as many people on your side as possible, if you’re strong we need to hide that.”

“Just you,” she repeats. “Tell them lies, I don’t care. I don’t want anyone else knowing.”

 _Why?_ I want to ask, but I keep my lips shut. Surely she’d trust someone like Blight with her angle; he’s been a mentor for far longer than I have, and unlike me, he’s had a success in his career. I want to pull her into a corner and ask her a million more questions, but before I can open my mouth, there’s the unmistakable sound of high heels from the far end of the train, and the familiar figure of Cosima arrives with two other people in tow. The first is the boy tribute, Ainsley, who seems to be swaying back and forth. Whether that be from shock, motion illness or from being completely doped out, it’s impossible to tell. Behind him is Blight, who meets my eyes and crosses his arms. I can hear what he’s telling me without him having to say it. _Hopeless._

“Ah, here she is,” Cosima beams, noticing Johanna. “My sweet girl, you took off the dress! But what a lovely thing it was, did you make it yourself?

“No,” mutters Johanna, and it takes me a moment to process the difference in her speech; eyes downturned, voice soft and flat. _Oh,_ I think. _She’s good_.

“Your mother’s, then?”

Johanna nods once, swiftly. “I miss her.”

“Oh, my dear,” Cosima brushes past, squeezing her umbrella-like dress into the gap between the seats and taking hold of Johanna’s hands. They look comically small next to her long, painted nails, but I can see the way that they’re calloused and hardened from long hours of labour. “I understand. I have two sons, you see, and they live oh-so far away from the Tribute Centre, so whenever the Games begin, I can’t see them for months. It feels awful, terribly awful, but you’ll make it through.”

I have to hide my scoff behind my hand and disguise it as a cough. Trust Cosima to equate going away for a work trip with the very-real possibility of dying before you see your loved ones again. She’s well-meaning, bless her, but doesn’t have a single speck of wisdom in that brain of hers.

“What about you, Ainsley,” I ask. The boy looks at me, blinking once, twice. Part of me wants to go up and steady his shoulders so he doesn’t keel over. “What family do you have?”

“Two brothers,” he says, slowly. “Older than me.”

“Oh, do they work in the forests, then?” He nods. “And do you?” A shake of the head. 

“What about you, Johanna?” Cosima peers over the girl. “Do you work in the forests?”

“No,” she says. “Mommy and Daddy have good jobs. They said I don’t need to work until I’m eighteen.”

 _Liar,_ I think. Anyone who knows anything about Seven could tell Johanna’s worked hard every day of her life just by looking at her carefully. Hell, there's still dirt caked under her nails. But Cosima doesn’t notice, and instead gives her a pained smile. If Blight does, he doesn’t say anything.

“We’re going to need a medic for Ainsley, once we arrive,” he says, once Cosima has squeezed out of the tight seating to give Johanna some room to breathe. “He’s not looking good.”

I take another glance at the boy, and it’s pretty clear that Blight’s diagnosis is right on, ‘not good’ just about describes it. Flinch withdrawal, from the looks of it; normally he’d probably have taken at least one more hit since we’ve been on the train and the effects are already wearing him out.

“Cosima, find us a bucket,” I say, quickly. If he throws up, I am not going to be able to stand the smell of leftover vomit on the carpet. For what it’s worth, Cosima nods and walks briskly away, muttering something about dinner being in two hours.

“So,” Blight begins, once she’s out of the way. “Tomorrow morning you’ll arrive in the Capitol. There’ll be cameras at the station, so make sure you look good, but your stylists will spruce it all up anyways.”

He goes on. I’ve heard this spiel four times now, so I tune out a little, but both of the tributes are paying keen attention. Well, Ainsley is trying. Johanna, however, has her eyes locked intently on his, paying careful attention to every word that leaves his lips. It reminds me a bit of the look Felicis had given Blight four years ago, when we’d been sat in this very compartment. I remember how he’d mouthed the words back, as if they’d be some kind of lifeline he could cling to. And then I think of the arrow plunged into his gut. _Fat lot of luck that did him,_ I think, bitterly.

“You’ve got two hours until dinner,” he says. “Cosima will find you. Do what you want to in the meantime.”

Ainsley nods and stands up to hobble away, teetering slightly to the left before staggering out of the compartment. Johanna remains sat, looking out the window, and Blight gives her a look, before his eyes meet mine. I think it’s ridiculous that he can’t know what she’s planning, but I don’t want to lose the trust of my tribute so soon. Still, when he opens his mouth, I can’t help but hope he’s noticed.

Instead, he says. “Flinch isn’t illegal in the Capitol, is it?”

“I don’t think so,” I pause. I think I’ve seen some passed around at parties and at the _events_ I’m forced to attend every time I return to the Capitol. “Are you thinking…”

“Yes,” he says, quickly. “If you agree.”

“Okay. He’s your tribute.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, Hazel.”

“Okay,” I repeat. “If he was mine, I’d do the same.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he says, and with a final glance of Johanna, he walks towards the door. “I’ll talk to Cosima. Hopefully we can have something ready by the time we arrive tomorrow.”

The door slides shut. There is a pause. And then.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Johanna hisses, snapping her gaze from the window back at me. “Are you kidding me? You’re just going to fucking dope him up for the rest of the week? You’re going to kill him if you do that, he’s as good as gone once he’s in the arena without any.”

“Johanna,” I say, lowering my voice. You never know who’s listening, once you’re in Capitol territory. “He’s as good as dead. We might as well make his last few days a bit more comfortable.”

“I knew it,” she stands up. “You’re not on our side, nobody is. I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

“How many people have you seen recover from a Flinch addition? And how many of those people did it in a _week_? Listen, Johanna, you know it’s ridiculous…”

“I don’t want to hear anything from _you_.” She stands up, clenching her fists. “I saw what you did. You’re monsters, all of you!”

"Johanna..."

She's about to storm off, but the idea of me saying the last word - even if it is begging her to stay - seems to set her ablaze. Turning around wildly, she lowers her voice.

"And for the record, I only cry when I'm angry."

Considering the tears glazed in her eyes, she might just be correct. 


	2. the enemy

**Chapter Two – The Enemy**

**Johanna**

I have to resist the urge to slam the door behind me as I storm back into my room on the train. In the only stroke of pathetic luck I'm able to manage today, nobody seems to be close enough to hear me go off on Hazel, so my secret is safe for now. That stupid, redheaded _bitch_ and her moral superiority, thinking she has any of our best interests at heart. With how everything's been going, I wouldn't be surprised if she'd lied to me about my strategy too, as if it would save me the 'peace of mind'.

I spend a couple of minutes sitting on the bed, silently fuming. The dress I wore for the reaping lies on a heap on the ground and it takes all of my willpower to not stand up and rip it into ribbons. But no, I can't do that. What would they say if they found the remains of it in my room the next morning? Besides, it was my mother's, and there's a reason why father insists that I wear it every year, no matter how hideous it is. I feel a jolt in the pit of my stomach; my poor father. His only daughter's gone off to the slaughter and taken one of the only remaining memories of his wife with her.

The bed's comfortable, at least. Too comfortable. It's been filled to the brim with blankets and pillows, piled higher and higher until it looks as like someone could drown in them. What utter bullshit it is, surely nobody needs this many blankets. Not when some of them could be given to those children who sit, freezing on the street. But I suppose that's just the Capitol way, isn't it? Take and take until there's nothing left to give, and then turn back to the Districts with open palms and a look that says 'you did this to yourself'. Fucking bastards, the lot of them.

Outside the train slows back to a halt, and I pause, glancing out the window. We must be going through some kind of checkpoint or refuelling. Based on the thick growth of cedar and fir trees outside the window, we must still be in Seven. That doesn't surprise me, we're the second largest district in all of Panem after Nine, and it brings me some comfort to know that somewhere through the dense thicket there are men and women who continue to work, their lives unchanged. That would have been me, if I'd had any luck. Sentenced to a life of hard labour somewhere in those misty forests. Not sentenced to death.

Maybe _sentenced to death, Johanna_ , I tell myself. _Not yet._

When the train starts again, I take some time to explore the room. It's huge, naturally. Next to the bed there's a table, and next to that is a fluffy carpet that feels like heaven under my bare feet, and a plush leather sofa. The wardrobe door hangs open from when I rummaged through it, desperate to get out of the dress, and next to it is the door to the bathroom, which is just as lush and lavish as the rest of the room. I spend the next half-hour or so exploring this suite, jumping from the bed to the sofa and feeling like a child. And then, there's the lingering thought that this room is not exclusive to me; last year it must have been given to the female tribute before me. She died in the bloodbath. Suddenly, I feel my blood run cold, and the room feels haunted.

Cosima knocks on the door exactly two hours after I stormed off. Her silly Capitol accent pierces through the steady hum of the train gliding along the tracks, and I freely roll my eyes, knowing she cannot see me.

"Johanna, darling, it's dinnertime. Would you be joining us?"

My stomach twinges dully, but I can't bear the thought of going out there and seeing them. Cosima with her lipstick, Ainsley with his dulled eyes, Blight with his pointed silence. And at the thought of Hazel, my hands form into shaking fists. No, not today.

"I'm sorry, Miss Cosima." I try to make my voice sound as vulnerable as I can muster. "I'm feeling awfully unwell."

"Oh," she says, sounding disappointed. "But my dear, this will be your first time tasting actual food!"

I almost gag but attempt to keep up the ruse. "I know, I feel so terrible. Perhaps, if it's alright with you, could you perhaps save some for me to eat after?"

"Of course, my poor dear," she says, and I grin, knowing I've struck her just where I want her. Of _course_ Cosima wants to be useful. "I'll let the others know, and you rest up."

She comes back after a half-hour and leaves a plate at my door. Once I know the coast is clear and the distinct clicking of her high heels has disappeared, I lean out and snatch the food. It's good, hearty stuff, and I inhale about half of it before I remember to take a break. I finish the rest as I sit of the sofa, looking outside the window and watching as the trees grow sparser until they're almost completely gone, and I'm sure we've escaped the District. The sky is already dark, and perhaps there's a clock somewhere in the room, but I'm not bothered to look. I only wait to make my escape when I hear the sliding of the door next to mine, signifying that Ainsley has retreated back to his room. I rummage around in the drawers until I find a pair of slippers, and then head out into the empty train.

Thankfully there's nobody left in the living room car, and I slip onto one of the armchairs. They'll have rerun the reaping a few times, just in case anybody missed it. There's no doubt in my mind that Ainsley has already seen it, along with our mentors, and though I couldn't bear to see them just now, the significance of this broadcast can't be overlooked. This will be my first impression of the people who will be out for my blood.

It's easy to find the channel, and I turn the volume up as loudly as I dare. They run in chronological order, so District One is up first. There isn't any need to focus on who is reaped, because volunteers are about as common in One as trees are in Seven. The first person up on stage is a tall boy with buzzed bleach-blonde hair, who introduces himself stoically as Paris. His district partner is a girl with red hair tied into two braids and a shark-like smile named Love. _Love._ I want to scoff. Who named their child something so stupid? They show a shot of her family, a group of four redheads in identical white clothing. I roll my eyes. 

I don't catch the names of the pair from Two, but they're both box-standard Careers, dark-haired and intimidating. The boy from Three wears glasses, which will not work in his favour if he loses them. The pair from Four catch my eye. The boy is called Fox, which is another ridiculous name. He has long hair and tattoos that snake all the way up one arm, and when he marches up, he whoops and winks at the audience. The girl is his polar opposite, stone-faced and aloof. She introduces herself as Circe, and something about the way she talks gives me chills.

And all too soon, its District Seven. I cringe the second I see myself walk on stage, half-dazed, but I force myself to focus. It's not as bad as I expected, I surely look like a terrified little girl, but I know there's work to be done to convince the Capitol and the rest of the districts that I'm harmless. No wonder Father was so set on me pushing the act further back in the Justice Building; he must have seen the cracks in my performance. Ainsley staggers on and one of the commentators makes a joke about placing bets on which one of us will die first. I feel my blood boil.

It's when we get to District Eight that I really begin to feel angry. The girl who gets reaped is called Twine, she's fourteen, and the second her name gets called she bursts into a flood of extreme, ugly tears. It takes everything I can do to resist screaming. _Really_? _A pathetic girl like_ this _is going to outshine me?_ Surely I looked weepy, but next to her I may as well have been smiling and waving. I'm going to need to push the act ten times further than I imagined standing out as a pitiful whelp next to her.

The rest of the tributes don't stand out much; there's the girl from Ten with cold eyes and half buzzed hair and the boy from Twelve, who gives the camera a half-hearted wave, but apart from that there isn't really anyone of note. I'm still fuming over Twine when I hear a voice from behind me.

"I guessed I would find you here."

I whirl around, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright of the television to the dark of the train car, but even from the voice I can tell its Hazel. She stands, looking at me, her arms crossed and a peculiar look in her brown eyes.

"What do you want?" I ask, sighing. I thought I'd be able to avoid her until tomorrow at the very least.

"I thought you might want to talk about the other tributes," she says, coming down to sit next to me uninvited. "They're your enemy, after all."

"I have thoughts," I say. "That doesn't mean I want to share them with _you_."

There's a moment of silence, where she seems unsure of what to say. And then she sighs.

"Alright. You're right. That's your prerogative. But you need my help."

"I wish I didn't. I don't want it," I spit.

She laughs, dryly. "If only that was the case. It would make things ten times easier, wouldn't it? I wish I wasn't here either."

"Why do you come here, then?" I ask. "This is your third year in a row, you could easily have swapped out with someone else." There aren't that many victors in Seven, but we're the fifth most Victor-heavy district, after the Careers and Ten.

"I'm needed in the Capitol," she says, and something about the look in her eyes tells me not to press the issue. "I don't need to be your friend, Johanna, if that's not what you want. I'm just here to do my job."

I look at Hazel. I remember her vaguely from when I was younger, she was three years older than me and fairly popular. She was always the fastest girl at sports events, and I used to catch her and her friends hanging around in the corridors in-between lessons, laughing hysterically at jokes. She won her games at seventeen by poisoning the Career's food supply and outrunning the remaining tributes as they were chased by Mutts. Hazel's strengths were that she was smart and fast, two things that I am not.

"I remember you from school," I say.

She gets a distant look in her eyes. "Maybe you're right. That feels like so long ago."

"You were fast," I say. "I can run, but I'm nowhere near a sprinter."

"Fast isn't everything," she comments. "Two wins in four years have been accounted to outliving the rest of the tributes. The Capitol will be looking for good old-fashioned murder this go-around."

She's referring to herself and Annie Cresta, of course, the winner of last year's games. I only paid as much attention as I had to, but I remember the girl going somewhat bezerk and only winning because she could swim better than the other tributes when the arena flooded. There was some backlash to the way those Games were handled, and from what I know, that was why this year we have a brand new Gamemaker. Maybe Hazel is right. Maybe they _are_ looking forwards to bloodshed.

"How good are you with an axe?" she asks.

"Good," I say. "Very good."

She nods. "You might not get one, but you'll be able to handle a mace alright if it comes to it. They're gunning for a winner from One – we haven't had one in a while, so expect woods in the arena. That will benefit you."

I nod, and then yawn. Hazel notices and stops.

"Go to bed, Johanna."

"Later," I say. I'm exhausted, but sleep seems impossible today.

She gives me a curious look. "You are not going to be easy to work with, are you?"

"Absolutely not." I give her a grin.

To my own surprise, she smiles back. "Good. Things were starting to get boring." And then, without another word, she heads back in the direction she came, and I'm left alone again in the darkness.


	3. ready or not

**Chapter Three – Ready or Not**

**Johanna**

I wake long before the sun has even begun to make its ascent across the horizon. The train is still moving, and will continue to for the next few hours, so I take a moment to relax under the mountain of pillows and blankets I’ve piled myself under. I’ve lowered the temperature in my room so that it’s almost freezing, just like the crisp autumn mornings in Seven that I’m used to. From second-hand knowledge, summers in the Capitol are sweltering, what with the tall buildings and cement streets trapping the heat, and July is just creeping in. I let out a muffled groan. I hope the arena is somewhere cold.

Eventually I manage to pull my aching body out of my comfortable nest and towards the bathroom. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, the faces of the tributes on screen yesterday blending into a mesh of blurry tormentors that chased me through the woods of Seven. Ainsley, stumbling after me past the logging tents, coughing up black liquid, until it covers his whole face and he is replaced by Twine from Eight, who brandishes an axe in her shaking hands. She has me pinned to the ground and is starting to hack my limbs off one by one when I catch a flash of red hair, and see Hazel, leaning against a tree in the far clearing, looking at me with emotionless, dead eyes.

I physically twitch, as if to brush the memory away. There’s no need to think of any of them like that; none of them are a threat to me. It will be me, brandishing the axe in the arena, and nobody else. As I pull off the silken pyjamas, I examine my toned, bronze arms in the mirror. It will be hard to hide them from the prep team. I’ll be lucky to come up with a good excuse, if I can.

_My prep team! My stylist!_ I suddenly remember that today, I will be handed over to them for the tribute parade. This will be the first time I will be seen in-person by the Capitol and my fellow tributes. I take a deep breath and rush to the wardrobe, hoping to find the stupidest, most frivolous outfit I can. Eventually I decide upon a light blue dress with flowing sleeves. It’s nothing compared to the yellow one I had on yesterday, but I can’t bring myself to put it back on. I wonder now, seeing it on a heap on the floor, if I can ask Cosima to send it back to my father. If I don’t win to give it to him – and I _will_ win – he’d want it back.

I sit in my room for a while, rocking backwards and forwards on the edge of the bed, until I hear the knocking at my door and know that it’s time for breakfast. I didn’t make it to dinner last night and while my stomach still twists at the thought of them all sat there, Ainsley and Blight and Hazel, I know I can’t avoid meals forever. Still, I have to fight down a scowl that threatens to naturally cross my face as I realise, I’m the last one to arrive. Blight seems to have foregone food and is kicking back a cup of brown liquid I don’t recognise. I do, however, recognise the metal flask next to him. If Ainsley has any sort of emotion about his mentor drinking at such an early hour, however, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he sits, nearly catatonic, staring at the empty plate in front of him.

Hazel, thankfully, doesn’t have anything next to her but a tall glass of orange juice and a crescent-shaped pastry. She eyes me warily as I enter the room, like I’m about to have another outburst, and I can’t help but think of our conversation last night. It was pretty typical, as far as mentor-tribute conversation go, but I think of her tone as she had walked away. It had seemed casual, jesting, the way someone would talk to a friend. _A friend,_ I think. I’ve not really had any friends, really. I’ve always done better on my own, and even if I’d ever made attempts, my tendency to insult would have driven anyone that remained away from me. But I suppose, out of everyone on this train, Hazel is perhaps the safest bet for a friend I could ever ask for.

I look at Blight. He’s been mentoring for, what, over fifteen years? Since he’s started, he’s only had one success – and that’s assuming he’d been mentor four years ago. The odds are likely, however, considering our other victors are old Cove, who can barely move from the arthritis plaguing his bones, and Lupus, who’s drowning so deep in alcohol I’m surprised his lungs aren’t full of the stuff yet. I’m not surprised Blight’s following in his footsteps, with so many failures under his belt. We’ve come close a few times in his years-long career, even the final two once or twice, but Seven hasn’t had much luck when it comes to Victors.

Much luck until _Hazel_. I look at her again, trying to remember anything about her Games, but I come up with a blank. She’s only been mentoring for a few years, and she’s had losses, but not nearly as many as Blight. I won’t get her any sponsors from the time in the Capitol, but would she fight for it when I prove my skill in the arena? She’s very pretty, with naturally smiling eyes and striking hair, and still young – she’s in the Capitol’s favour, as far as looks go. And she’s the most recent female victor, after the girl from Four last year, but nobody’s got their eyes on a nutcase. I hate to think it, but Hazel’s appeal in the Capitol _might_ be in my favour.

The question is, will she be willing to exploit it for me?

I don’t have much time to contemplate the answer, because as soon as I’ve sat down, Cosima already begins to fuss.

“Oh Johanna, look how pretty you are in that dress, your prep team is just going to eat you up!”

“Thank you,” I try to sound as humbled as I can, but I know she’s only being nice. I’m no looker. My nose is too pointy and my brows too thick. Instead of focusing on her, I look towards the wide array of food in front of me and point to some kind of flat, sugar-coated thing. “What’s that?”

“Oh, we like to call it...”

Once Cosima starts talking and I’m satisfied that I won’t be obligated to reply for a while, I tune her out and start to eat. The food is good, _too_ good. The tastes tingle my palate and I have to restrain myself from eating too much, or I won’t end up fitting into my outfit for the parade tonight. _And I won’t have food like this in the arena,_ I think. _Not unless I have sponsors._ My eyes flicker back to Hazel at that thought, but she’s busy talking under her breath to a train attendant. She gives a quick look to Ainsley and I realise she must be talking about the possibility of a Capitol doctor showing up once we arrive. I still grit my teeth at the thought.

_Why are you so angry, Johanna?_ I think. _It just means he’ll be easier to kill._

I hope someone else kills him, though. Killing your district partner is taboo, not unless it’s in self-defence, a mercy killing, or you’re in the top two. And as much as I’d like to go home, I’d rather not be a pariah.

Eventually the train goes dark, and I know we’re nearing the Capitol. I have sudden tight feeling in my chest, like claustrophobia, but it has nothing to do with the fact that we’re surrounded in stone. No, it’s like it’s finally hit me that this is _real._ That I, Johanna Mason, am about to enter the Capitol as a tribute in the 71st Hunger Games.

* * *

And tribute I am. They don’t let me forget that realisation, not once we rush past the crowds and crowds of citizens flocking to see a glimpse of this year’s sacrificial lambs. They hold out signs, and there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing that I feature in exactly none of them. In fact, I make it a point to cower away the second I’m featured, just to hammer in the point that I’m not worth considering. Johanna Mason is to be ignored.

When we arrive, everything happens in a blur of voices and people. Ainsley is taken away almost immediately by a series of people in white-and-blue uniforms, Blight in tow, and I’m ushered down a long corridor that leads somewhere deep into the tribute centre. Hazel matches pace with me for a while, her strides matching mine, and as we walk, she speaks in a low voice.

“Do whatever you can to convince them.” I give a sharp, tight nod. “And don’t let Foglia press you. She’s infuriating, but whatever you do, do not let her see you fight back.”

I make a quick noise of confusion, but she’s already disappeared, headed down the other side of the corridor towards a lift, and I’m hoisted away to my prep team.

Foglia is, apparently, my stylist. I meet her after I’ve been scrubbed raw by my prep team. It took everything I had not to scream obscenities at them as they commented on my body like it was a slab of meat on the kitchen counter. Thankfully if they took notice of my muscled arms and calves, they said nothing, instead ranting on about the unevenness of my haircut and my slightly crooked teeth. Once they decided to release me, Foglia greets me. She’s decked out in all green, from the top of her poofed-up emerald head to her gem-encrusted toes, and she gives me a quick, almost disgusted, once-over.

“How old are you?” Foglia asks, her voice dripping with the haughty Capitol accent.

“Seventeen.”

“You look younger,” she comments, and I have to scoff. I look exactly my age, but compared to the look of the Capitol teenagers, I’m not surprised that she’d think so. “I could have had time to add a few more curves to the outfit, but no matter.”

_Curves?_ I nearly want to reach over and slash open her green skin with my newly sharpened nails at the thought of such a disgusting addition, but I don’t. Instead I cough into my hand and think of Hazel’s words. _Come on Johanna, you can’t lose this quickly. If you give in to this woman, you’ll never be able to handle the rest of them._

But I do handle it. I handle the rest of her comments, awful as they are, as she slips me into a dark green jumpsuit covered in leaves and vines and pops a twirling tangle of branches on my head as a headdress. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. _Whoever heard of leaves being_ beneath _the branches?_ I handle the fussing of the prep team, and I handle each sweet, shy word that comes out of my mouth. It’s only when I’m ushered to the chariots, where all the other tributes line up, that I’m faced with another challenge.

Ainsley is there, and he looks remarkably better. I’m not sure if it’s the power of makeup, or because he’s finally been given another dose of Flinch to get him through the day, but as I get closer the answer is clear. He gives me a look as if he’s actually seen me for the first time and speaks the first words I’ve heard him utter to me since the reaping.

“They got it wrong. It’s branches and _then_ leaves, not the other way around.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say, trying to keep my voice quiet and still on the shy side. “I doubt anyone in the Capitol has actually seen a real tree before.”

“I wish we were dressed like One,” he says, enviously. I follow his gaze to the pair – Paris and Love – who wear crowns of precious gems. My instinctive reaction is to answer with something sharp and biting; _“well, I think they look like little kids at a dress-up party”_ or “ _imagine the look on the girl’s face if I walked up and yanked that crown off her pretty red hair”._ But I don’t, because Ainsley also has to believe I’m as weak as he is.

“Yes,” I lie, instead. “Me too.”

“Are you scared?” He asks.

“Of the tributes from One?”  
  
“Yeah,” he shrugs, and looks behind him. Even with the new dosage in his system, his movements are still slow and swaying. “All of them, really. The Capitol, too.”

I look around, making sure nobody has heard him. It’s natural for the tributes to be scared of the Capitol, yes, but admitting it is another thing.

“It’s normal to be afraid,” I say, not wanting to admit it in case someone is listening.

“But are _you_?”

I can’t help but frown at him. That isn’t good. If he’s asking, it means he may not believe it. And it’s not just him that I need to convince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wasn’t my favourite, but it’s necessary. Next chapter is where things really start perking up though, I’m very excited to write it! It’s a perspective on the Games I don’t think many fics have done before. See you all soon, please let me know how you’ve been finding the story so far!


	4. it gets better

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Hazel**

I only let out a breath once the doors of the elevator have properly closed. I've never been able to put into words how much I despise the first few hours back in the Capitol. No matter how hard I try, every time I see the distinct shape of the skyline and the silver hues of the metallic-topped buildings, I feel like I'm seventeen again, about to be sent back in as a tribute in my own games. Only this time, once I'm forced to rehash all the gory details, I won't make it out alive.

Part of it is true, in a way. Every year I _do_ relive my own Games; I feel the same jolt of terror when the podiums push up through the ground and into the cornucopia as I did the first time, the same juddering sense of relief tinged with horror at the sound of a cannon. Only this time it's not my own life that's in my hands, but someone's else's. Which is considerably worse.

I'm dizzied for a moment, and it's only when I hear a call of my name that I blink and realise that the doors of the elevator are open and I'm standing in the middle of the Donum Room. It's a wide space located just under the ground floor of the tribute centre, locked off to all but the most high-ranking Capitol officials, and, of course, the mentors. There's not too many of us around. Most people haven't arrived yet, or are prepping their tributes for the ordeal of makeovers, but there's a few people milling around. Saffron and Queenie from One, who barely give me anything more than a side glance – but I'm not surprised, they've disliked me ever since I poisoned both their tributes four years ago– Porter from Five, and the pair from Eleven. I don't recognise the woman, but the man, Chaff, is the one who greeted me. He waves at me with his stump-arm, and I manage a half wave and a smile back. Chaff isn't too bad, as far as things go, he's nice and when he's sober, he's not a bad conversationalist. But I'm not friends with many of the mentors here, and from my brief communications over the phone with Zircon, from Three, I know he won't be coming to the Capitol for these games. It's a shame, really. We made fairly good friends last year. Still, I think of his face last year as he watched his tribute get half-skinned alive by the psychopathic boy from Two, and I can't blame him. At least my pair were spared the mercy of a quick death at the bloodbath.

I make my way to the station for District Seven and get the strange feeling of alien familiarity; like coming home from a long trip away. This is where, in a week, I'll be spending most my hours; depending on how long Johanna survives. There are multiple screens – three, in fact. One that covers a live feed of the Games, another that gives me eyes on my tribute at all times, and a third which monitors sponsorships and bidding. If I wanted to, right now I could look at how many people are betting on Johanna's survival, but I don't. Unlike most mentors, none of that will help me this year. The other two screens are blank, of course, the Games have barely begun. There's no real need to be here, not until the gong sounds and the Games begin, but it's where most mentors spend their time. There's a massive screen in the centre that plays the Capitol's television feed, kind of like the one they have in the central square of Seven, and we use it to view events like the Chariot Rides together. Plus, it's an easy place as any to work out alliances and see if you can gauge anything about the other tributes from their mentors.

I sigh, leaning back and running my hands through my hair. How I wish I could be at home right now, curled up in my nook in Victor's Village with my cat Tiny, without the crushing weight of a girl's life on my chest. Except, I'd have been here even if I wasn't a mentor. I frown and think about the envelope that had been left on the foot of my bed this morning, inviting me to a dinner with another of my 'admirers'. No, I would have to be in the Capitol anyways. At least if I'm here as a mentor, it means something.

Eventually more people arrive, and I begin to catch up with a few of the victors that I haven't seen in a while. I spend a while in conversation with Cecilia, from Eight, whose stomach is flat again, meaning she's finally given birth to her third child. Last year she'd been in the final stages of pregnancy, but as one of only two victors from her district, she'd had no choice but to be here. I let her talk about how excited her two boys were to have a baby sister, all the while thinking about how horrific it must be to bring children up in a world where they might be sent to the same hellscape as everyone else in this room. But they put a smile on her face, and I remember Blight telling me about empty she had seemed those first few years after she had won her Games. 

Speaking of Blight, I rush to him the second he enters the Donum Room. He still looks weary, and there's the thin sheen of sweat on his brow that never seems to go away, but his eyebrows are no longer furrowed in worry.

"How did it go?" I ask. Ainsley is not technically my tribute, but he's from Seven, and Blight and I are on the same team. If Johanna doesn't win, I'd want him to, even if I know the odds of that are nigh impossible.

"He's allowed two doses a day," he says. "One in the morning and in the afternoon. Obviously, he's not going to get any in the games, but it'll save him from keeling over beforehand."

"That's good," I say, but I think of Johanna's outburst last night. Was she right? Is it immoral for us to be drugging him up when it might hurt him, just to save him the peace of mind? I shake the thoughts from my head, however. He's not my tribute, and therefore not my responsibility.

"How about the girl?" He asks. "Johanna?"

"Oh," I say, and have to bite my lip. Part of me wants so desperately to tell Blight, but I know I can't. If I tell Blight, someone may overhear, and the whole plan would go down in flames. But most importantly, if I break Johanna's trust, I know she would be done with me forever. She's not the kind of girl to break grudges, I know that much from spending a day with her. And I know that, somehow, I've pinned all my hopes on her.

_Stupid Hazel,_ I think. _Isn't that what everyone tells you not to do – don't get your hopes up on a tribute. That's the first cardinal rule of mentoring, and you've been doing this for four years. Any sort of hope you have for Johanna, crush them, or you're going to end up shattered._

I realise I've been quiet when Blight raises an eyebrow at me, and I cough to make up for it. I'm not an actor like Johanna is, and it's going to take some effort to convince the others.

"I'm not quite optimistic." I manage, which is so ironically a lie that I almost bark out a laugh when the words leave my lips. However, instead of calling out my bluff, Blight looks sympathetic.

"It gets better," he says.

I nearly have to choke back another laugh. How many times have I heard that phrase? _It gets better._ Surely Blight knows how stupid it all is. If things get better, then he has some explaining to do. How come I wake up every night with images of Felicis struggling to grasp the arrow in his stomach because of how slick with blood his hands are? How come I watched as he gets skewered through the eye and how come I still feel guilt over the fact that I can't even stay to hold his hand as he dies because if I don't flee, I'll join him? How come, every so often, when it's particularly silent, I can hear the screams of the other tributes as they get caught in the flow of magma behind me? _No, Blight,_ I think. _It doesn't get any better. You just get used to it._

"Hazel!" I feel a pair of arms around my neck, grasping me in a hug, and I jolt until I realise who the voice belongs to. Finnick from Four has been making the rounds and has finally made it to our little section of the Donum Room. I breathe a little sigh of relief; I like Finnick, despite the fact that he's from Four and extremely obnoxious. We're both young, in fact he's a year younger than me, and having won two years apart has put us on somewhat a similar standing. Sometimes we'll eat meals together in the dining hall just outside, and more than once we've been escorted to meet some of 'benefactors' together. I think just about anyone could bond over those shared experiences, I'm simply lucky that Finnick is easy to get along with.

"Happy to see me?" I ask, as he gives Blight a good-natured wave.

"With all of my heart, I miss those red locks of yours," he picks up a strand of my hair and I laugh. Nearly everyone in Four has the same sun-bleached golden hair, and he's no exception. "But don't tell the ladies of the Capitol."

I roll my eyes good natured-ly. There are a few people that can put me at ease in the Capitol; Zircon, Finnick, and Mags. Thinking of, I look around for her, but she's nowhere to be seen. Normally she'd be huddled at her station already, shoes off and perched on her seat like a strange bird. When I ask Finnick about it, he sighs.

"It's Nemoné again this year," he gestures at the tall woman who's talking to the mentors from Two, presumably about allies. She's one of those victors that really embody the 'spirit' of the Games; that is to say she's a piece of shit Capitol sympathiser. Most of us don't like her very much.

"Because of the success of last year, I'm guessing," Blight says, and I watch the easy grin on Finnick's face fade. Of course, last year's victor was not the success story that you want to see as a mentor, but any success is better than none. I remember barely seeing Finnick last year, lost in a haze of paranoia and guilt. It was clear that the girl meant something to him.

"How is Annie?" I ask, gently. I watch a wave of emotions crash over his face, as if he's flashing through the past year in his mind. She hadn't been well at the victory tour when she'd visited us in Seven, and dinner had to be finished early because she'd started screaming in terror at our mayor for no other reason than he'd complimented her dress. I feel my stomach twist. Some of us are lucky.

"Better." Finnick ends up deciding on, and before I have a chance to press him any further, the sound of the anthem plays and voices around the room hush one another. Finnick, to his credit, recovers quickly, and grabs one of the empty chairs from Six to sit next to me. We watch as the screen fades in and we're given the same formal address as every year.

"So, how are your tributes this year?" Finnick whispers to me. Talk like this is common amongst mentors, but we're all very careful not to let anything slip. As good friends as some of us may be, we're still competing against one another to keep our own tributes alive. Just another way in which the Capitol keeps us pitted against one another, even after our own games are over. And this year, I must be very careful.

"I'll be honest," I sigh, using the same tone of voice as I have the past two years. "Hopeless. The boy's a drug addict and the girl is so terrified that even the wind could give her a heart attack. How about you?"

Finnick sighs, and I think he believes me. "They're both volunteers, which is good. Fox is an idiot, he'll get himself killed if he doesn't take things seriously, but Circe stands a good chance depending on the arena." I try to think about which one Circe is. Was it the girl with the close-cropped hair? I wonder how she'd face off one-by-one with Johanna. Without weapons, Johanna would be doomed, but maybe with an axe in her hands she'd stand a chance? I'm not sure. I've never seen her handle one.

We fall silent as the parade begins. The pair from One are rolled out and I keep my eye tightly on them. I have it on good authority from some of my Gamemaker 'admirers' that the Capitol is gunning for a winner from District One this year. Which one will they favour more; the boy, who could be a brutal killer and give them the bloodshed they sorely missed last year, or the girl, who is peppy and beautiful and would make a wonderful addition to our little collection? I look over at Queenie and Saffron, who both smile triumphantly. The pair from Two roll out, looking as daunting as any victor. Finnick's tributes; brazen Fox waves and smiles at the crowds while Circe looks ahead, dead eyed. His instinct is correct, the girl stands a chance. The boy doesn't.

And all too soon it's Johanna and Ainsley on screen. I have to cover my mouth at the look of their outfit; it's hideous. At least Ainsley looks better than he had, the colour has returned to his skin and he's not about to teeter off the edge of the chariot like I was afraid he might. Johanna, on the other hand, looks a lot worse for wear. How much of it is due to the outfit and lighting and how it is much of her acting, I'm not sure. But she's taking these deep, shaky breaths, and once she's sure all the cameras in Panem are on her, she bursts into a flood of tears.

I have to stop myself from gasping. _Oh, she's good._

I hear Finnick click his tongue next to me, and I spare a look to my left. His eyebrows are furrowed at he has a pitying look on his face. _Yes! She's managed to convince Finnick! And he's notoriously good at picking up a ruse; if she's got him, she's got a good chance of following through!_

I try not to let my joy show on my face, and I hope that everyone takes my aversion to eye contact as a sign of despair at the pathetic act of my tribute. Part of me can see the sponsor numbers dwindling into the negatives, but I don't care. The spark of hope I'd fought so hard to supress rises in my chest again, and I have to swallow it down. Not yet. She hasn't won yet.

I sit until the rides finish, and in the dim glow of the setting sun I can see the tears have left marks in Johanna's makeup. It's only once the screen switches off and the murmur of conversation starts up again, that I look around me. Quite a few of the mentors are looking at me, some triumphantly, others pitifully. But inside, I'm smiling. _Just you wait,_ I think. _Just you wait…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m a dumb bicc and decided to stay up until 1am because I wanted to finish up this draft too and post it. This was a very fun chapter to write, the victors are very fun characters! You’ll be seeing far more of them in the future!


	5. poppies

CHAPTER FIVE – Poppies

**Johanna**

Dinner is an unpleasant affair. We sit there – in the dining room of the seventh floor – surrounded by silence, the gallery of food in front of us remaining untouched. Awkwardness hangs in the air like humidity, and it takes all my willpower not to snatch up one of the neatly lined-up knives and stick it in the wall behind me. Prove to them that I’m not the whining, snotty brat that they see me as. But Ainsley is sat next to me, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves, and while I don’t think he’d betray me to the other tributes, he remains my enemy. Not to mention Cosima, who can’t keep her mouth shut to save her life. She’s barely torn her eyes away from her strange, rectangular, light-up box since we’ve arrived in the Capitol; and judging from how she presses it to her ear and chatters away about gossip after gossip, she needs not even see someone to spill secrets.

Blight’s the only other person at the table, sat on Ainsley’s other side, but he’s busy murmuring something to an avox and doesn’t seem to pay much attention to either of us. Nobody’s talking to me, and I’m not surprised. After my little stunt on the chariots, I’m sure they’re all at a loss. No matter, I shake my head and try to ignore the lingering embarrassment. It was necessary. Instead, I draw my attention to the food. I’ve barely eaten all day – Foglia spent far too much time talking and not enough time paying attention to the grumbling of my stomach – and I have to sit on my hands to resist reaching out and grabbing fistfuls of rice and meat. I can see Ainsley bite his lip and I know he’s thinking the same thing as me. _Where are they?_

It takes another ten minutes for them to arrive. First is Ainsley’s stylist, a man whose name I cannot remember for the life of me, but who has the appearance of someone in their middle age trying desperately to grapple the little youth he has left. Following him is Foglia, mouth pulled into a thin, tight line. Her neatly-slicked back hair has been ruined by little fly-aways and if looks could kill, based on the way she’s glaring at me, I’d be struck dead. Hazel is last, looking a little flustered and irate, but keeping it together. Blight raises an eyebrow.

“Were the elevators not working?”

“They were working just fine,” replies Hazel, evenly. Her eyes flick from Foglia back to Blight, and then to the rest of us at the table. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I’m not at _all_ sorry,” Foglia says with a huff, her fury still glued on me. “If my work is going to be treated with such disrespect by a tribute, don’t expect me to offer them any respect in turn.”

“She’s just a kid. She was upset,” Blight sighs. “And you left the rest of us waiting too. Next time we’ll just eat without you.”

Foglia huffs and crosses her arms, but luckily, Hazel comes to my rescue and sits down between us, blocking us from seeing each other. Luckily for _her,_ if I had to spend another second looking at that face, I’d have clawed her eyes out with my own hands. Instead, I sit and twiddle with my fork. And then Cosima coughs and begins to talk.

_Oh boy,_ I think. _This is going to be a long meal, isn’t it?_

I think I’ve finally escaped when dinner is over, and I’m escorted to my room. If I thought my train compartment was lavish, it’s nothing compared to this; easily twice the size, with a window entirely covering one of the walls and a walk-in closet. I take a note of my own personal dining area and make sure to remember that for later; there is no need to relive the social hellscape that is the dining room ever again. I’ve just tested out one of the three armchairs when there’s the infuriating sound of knocking at the door. In a rage, I throw the notebook I’ve been examining across the room, and it falls to the floor with a pathetic clatter.

“Johanna,” Hazel’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “Will you come for a walk with me? I have something to show you.”

If it were anyone else, I would have let out the most pathetic whimper I could to draw them away and spent the rest of the night exploring the room, but instead I walk to the door. If it’s Hazel, she probably has something important to tell me. When she sees the fallen book, she gives me a dry look, but says nothing, only gesturing for me to follow. I’m surprised when she walks, not to some unseen part of the floor, but to the door leading towards the elevator. Noticing my curious expression, she smiles.

“There’s a garden on the ground floor,” she says. “It’s not quite like home, but I thought you might feel comfortable around the greenery.”

I want to retort with something biting, but the awareness that anyone could be listening looms over me like a shadow, so instead I take a deep breath

“That sounds very nice, thank you.”

We ride in silence down the elevator and continue to down the hallway once we exit onto the first floor. Hazel must know this place well, because she leads me down twists and turns in the corridors without second thought, until push through a set of inconspicuous glass doors.

The air is warm and humid but refreshing. She was right, it’s not quite like what we have at home; but it’s designed for beauty, not realism. Flowers of all different shades bloom – ones that I recognise and ones that are unfamiliar – the air is thick with the scent of pollen and herbs, and I can hear the buzzing of hummingbirds, like insects around us. Above us is a thick net that’s held to the sky with unseen wires, keeping the birds trapped inside. I watch one of the hummingbirds dart from a blue flower to a yellow one, drinking in sweet nectar, and I feel a jolt in my chest. It and I are the same – trapped inside a net created by the capitol, fed sweet things and told kind words, but ultimately only there for entertainment. A bird in a birdcage.

“How do you feel?” Hazel asks, and it’s only now that I realise she’s been watching me. I sigh and shrug, because I don’t feel much like talking. “The other mentors were very interested in your performance today.”

That catches my attention. “How do you mean?”

“Don’t worry, they’re mostly fooled. Got a couple bits of sympathy thrown my way, but I know that they’re all secretly pleased that Seven’s been stuck with a pair of weaklings this year. One’ll have their eyes set on you at the bloodbath, though. You’d better get out of there quick.”

“One?” I pause to think of the tributes. Oh, the redhead girl and the angry blonde boy. “Why them?”

“I’m afraid that’ll be my fault,” Hazel winces. “Their mentors have a bit of a vendetta against me. You’re an easy kill in their book, and it’ll give them the satisfaction they crave to see another one of my tributes gunned down.”

I frown. I suppose I never thought of it that way; it’s as much of a game behind the screens as it is on them. “So, I should stay away from them?”

“Oh, kill them once you have the chance.” She gives me a wry smile. “But give them a wide birth until you get that chance.”

“Alright,” I say. “What else?”

“Finnick’s told me his male tribute’s got his head up his arse, so don’t discount him as a threat, but there’s no way he’ll win. The girl is the one to look out for. As for Two, I’m not sure. The Career pack might be looking to recruit one of the girls from the outlying districts; Ten, maybe. She looks strong.”

“Surprised Finnick Odair is judging somebody with their head up their arse,” I say, wryly. I remember watching his games when I was younger, and I was _not_ a fan. Hazel only half-smiles.

“Ha-ha, funny. Oh, and there’s something else.”

“What?”

“Sponsors. You’re dead last – that’s not a surprise, but there’s been some unusual action this year. You’re the only one with zero interest so far; even Ainsley has one or two.”

“ _Ainsley?_ ” I have to scoff. “What the fuck do they think he has to offer?”

Hazel shrugs. “I’m not sure. Suppose Blight is popular.”

“What does Blight have to do with it?” She stays silent, her mouth pulled into a thin line. “Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“I’ll get word out on your strategy to clients I’ve worked with before once the Games start,” she says. “Hopefully that’ll be enough to keep you going until you’ve proven yourself a killer. Pray the arena’s in your favour. Until then, keep at it. Only test weapons you know you’ll be bad at in training, otherwise work on survival skills.”

I nod. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d be face to face with my fellow tributes in training until now. Even though I know I could take them, the thought sends a sinking feeling down my stomach.

Hazel walks forward and bends down, observing a light blue flower. It’s one we don’t see at home, small and drooping, like a tiny teardrop. “These are my favourites.”

It occurs to me I don’t know much about Hazel. What kind of person is she to like such sad flowers? I look around, and my eyes fix on some red poppies across the way.

“I prefer those,” I say.

“Poppies?” She looks at them, and there’s a strange look in her eyes. “They’re pretty. They used to be a remembrance of war, back in the old days. Stupid concept, of course. They were just used to glorify the deaths of people who didn’t want to die.”

It’s brazen; first of all, the mention of the old days, and secondly the allusion of my own situation. Hazel always struck me as a calm sort of person, but I wonder how she felt when she was in my position. Was she furious, too?

“I just like them because they’re bright,” I say. “And angry. I relate to that.”

“Better to be angry than mellow,” she says, and it answers my question. “I don’t like them as flowers, anyways. And, we should head back. I have an appointment tonight.”

“With who?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer my question. She walks me back to the elevator and to my door. I’m sure she’s not going to say anything else, but just before I shut it, she gestures to the book on the floor.

“If you’re going to throw things, do it on the carpet. It’ll make less noise and if you make too much of a mess, Cosima’ll have a fit.”

I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning. The bed is too comfortable, and I’ve eaten too much, my belly is too tight and full. I try having a shower, but all it succeeds in doing is tangling my hair and giving me the urge to find a knife in the kitchen and hack it all off. Finally, I end up sitting on one of the armchairs and fiddling with the remote to the television. It’s only then that curiosity hits me, and a few searches on the high-tech machine give me the answers that I want.

The 67th Hunger Games. Hazel’s year. Part of me hesitates before I click the play button; I’ve seen them before, but now it somehow feels invasive. I know her now – barely, but better than anyone here. Still, if I have an eye on her strategy, perhaps it will help me understand how she approaches things now. I look towards the door, as if afraid she’ll appear, but when she doesn’t, I steel myself and hit play.

It begins, as usual, with the reapings. The Career pack is usual; the girl from Four is younger than the rest, and the boy from Six is large and hulking. It’s not Cosima on stage, but another mentor – a man, with long, purple braided hair. I remember his face from a few years ago, but not his name. There’s a shot of the crowd and I catch a few familiar faces from the thirteen-year-old section. I know I must be there somewhere, but it’s too quick, and the camera’s back on the man, reading from a slip of paper.

“Hazel Yewe,” he says, and the camera tracks immediately on Hazel. I’m surprised at her appearance, her now-long hair is cut short to her mid-neck and she wears a long white skirt and blue blouse. She’s terrified, that much is clear, but she holds her own. That is; until the boy is called. He’s another one from the seventeen-year-old section, tall, with long brown hair tied into a ponytail – named Felicis Oake. Hazel’s eyes widen slightly at the mention of his name, and while it’s only noticeable because I’m paying attention, I assume they must know each other.

We rush through the rest of the reapings, and then there’s a hard cut to the chariot rides. Both Hazel and Felicis are dressed almost as ridiculously as Ainsley and I were; a wreath of leaves and berries in their hair, going for some woodland pixie kind of look, I assume. It doesn’t suit either of them, but they still smile and wave. Hazel’s fairly pretty, and so gets all sorts of cheers from the crowd and she smiles and waves. She’s doing better than me on the charisma angle, but that is to be expected.

And then, to the training scores. The careers get high numbers; to be expected, but the little girl from Four shocks me with an eleven. That’s the highest I’ve seen anyone achieve in recent years, and it definitely puts a lot of attention on her back. Hazel gets a seven, which is fairly impressive, and Felicis gets a six – rounding out Seven fairly well compared to the averages of fives and fours from the other districts.

The interviews are what really pique my interest, however. The boy from Two does a handstand live on stage, which gets a whooping round of applause, and the girl from Four only answers with one or two words at most. And then, Hazel is on stage, in a sleek, deep blue gown with flowing sleeves and glitter in her hair. She smiles at Caesar Flickerman, whose lips and hair are a garish yellow, and waves at the crowd.

“Now, Hazel,” he says. “You’ve certainly been quite popular in the Capitol so far, particularly considering your District. What do you think about that?”

“It’s wonderful, Caesar,” she beams, though I can imagine her rage at the comment. “I feel so loved. Hello everybody!” The audience responds in a chorus of greetings. “You see, they replied to me! How I’d love to talk to people for hours.”

“Well, perhaps you will, if you win the Games,” Caesar says. “What strategies do you have up your sleeve, if you don’t mind asking? A seven as a training score is fairly impressive!”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll spill the beans just yet,” Hazel says. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret – it’s something I don’t think anyone has thought of yet.”

“Thought of? So, you’re a thinker, then?”  
  
“Oh yes,” she says. “Anyone can kill somebody. Only a victor can outsmart them.”

I wonder if she was truly that confident, or if she was laying it on thick. A little like how I’m performing, but in reverse. It brings me some form of comfort, knowing I’m not the only one lying to the Capitol. And if she did it and won, perhaps I can too.

Felicis is on stage next, and he’s clearly playing the part of the joking trickster. He banters with Caesar backwards and forwards for a while, and I tune most of it out, until a particular question catches my attention.

“It’s a wonderful outfit, Felicis,” Caesar is saying, gesturing to his dark blue velvet suit. “I can’t help but notice the flower on your lapel there. What was the choice behind it?”

“Oh,” Felicis says, grinning. I squint at the little red thing, it’s too small to make out on the wide shot of the two talking. The camera cuts to Hazel every now and again, to show us her reaction, and it’s hard to focus on anything in particular. “It’s a poppy. I specifically asked my stylist to add it to my outfit, they’re my favourite flowers.”

“Is there any reason for that in particular?” Caesar asks.

“In the old days, they were a symbol of war,” he says. “Of victory. They’re my lucky charm. I’m going to be victor, obviously. This is just how I'll let everyone else know.”

The camera cuts to Hazel. Her eyes are hardened, but unreadable, just like they were in the flower garden. I feel a jolt and turn the television off.

No poppies, I think. Not for me. I don’t care what anyone says, flowers or no flowers, I’m going to be a victor. Felicis and Hazel and Caesar Flickerman be dammed.


	6. dismissal

CHAPTER SIX – Dismissal

 **Johanna**

There are few things I hate more in the world than waking up early.

But when Cosima begins with the sharp knocking at my door, my usual complaints will do nothing to quieten her chirping. Groaning, I turn around to look through the cracks in the heavy curtains and see it’s already light outside. I’m not usually such a heavy sleeper – but ever since I’ve arrived in the Capitol, my nights have been dreamless. I’m still dressed in my ruffled day clothes, and the television remote digs under one of my ribs, reminding me of last night. If anything will get me out of bed, it’s _that._

I rummage in the wardrobe for anything appropriate to wear for the Training Centre, eventually deciding on a baggy white shirt that will cover most of my muscles and slim dark leggings. I wonder if it’s Foglia’s job to prepare me with my outfits, but she’s as good as forsaken me as my stylist. Perhaps, if I make it out alive, I can launch some formal complaint; get her fired from the Games completely. The thought is the first thing to bring a smile to my lips in days, so I decide to follow it through.

Breakfast is a quiet and awkward affair; neither Blight nor Hazel are present, so Ainsley and I sit in silence as Cosima babbles to us about what we’re to expect in the Training Centre. I’m not really paying attention though, my attention keeps shifting from the banana pancakes in front of me to the concept that, in less than an hour, I will be face to face with the tributes that want to kill me. When breakfast is over, Cosima walks us to the elevator and keys in a few numbers but doesn’t step in herself. Instead, she gives us a peppy, white smile and tells us to update her on everything over dinner.

When the elevator doors close, Ainsley speaks up.

“How are you feeling?”

“Huh?” I look up, from where I’ve been staring at my boots. “About training?”

“Yeah,” he says. “And yesterday, at dinner, with Foglia.”

 _She’s a bitch who deserves to have her eyes gouged out,_ I think, but I don’t say it. Instead I muster something else.  
  
“She scared me a bit, and was awfully mean, but I suppose she had her reasons to be angry.”

“I thought it was stupid,” Ainsley shrugs. “Listen, Johanna, I know this might not be the right time to bring this up, but I thought it’d be better if we split up now. You know? Learn our own things; we can still talk to each other, but maybe it’d be a bad idea if we-”

“If we weren’t allies in the arena?” I finish. My voice breaks slightly at the end, which I’m sure he takes as despair, but truthfully, it’s because I’m masking a laugh. Firstly, at the thought that Ainsley could ever be my ally. But mostly because this means that Ainsley thinks he stands more of a chance than I do at winning these Games. _Me?_ Ainsley Coutts has never seen me in the field, lugging lumber over my back or chucking an axe at hard-to-reach places; hitting them every time. He’s a drugged-out skinny kid who couldn’t throw a proper punch if his life depends on it. And he thinks _he’s_ a better contender than I am.

“Oh Johanna, not in a bad way!” Ainsley says quickly, as if he’s worried the floodgates will open again. Perhaps I should let them, just to make him uncomfortable. “It’s just – we’re not that compatible, are we? We each stand a better chance apart.”

Before I have the time to formulate some reply, the elevator doors slide open. I take the chance to slip away from him, feigning upset, as I move in between the boy from Nine and the girl from Eleven. The tributes are standing in a circle around the Head Trainer, who informs us that we’re now only waiting for the pair from Four. Across from me, I see two-thirds of what must make up the Career tributes; the pairs from One, who murmur to each other, and Two, who wear matching dark uniform-like outfits. I scan the circle for the girl from Ten, the one who Hazel warned me might be induced into the Career pack. There she is, next to the boy from Eight and Ainsley – all buzzed hair and muscled arms. I’m not surprised they have their eyes on her, so do I. Though not as an ally, but as a threat that I must eliminate as soon as possible.

Eventually the pair from Four show up, the boy giving a lazy smile, and the girl absolutely fuming. The Head Trainer pays them no mind and begins to tell us how training works. I begin on simple survival skills, like setting traps and learning about edible plants and fruit. Things are fairly uneventful until after lunchtime, when I’m sat, learning how to start a fire with unconventional materials, and a voice comes from behind me.

“Johanna, right?”

I turn around to see the girl from Eight, Twine. She’s stereotypically pretty, short, with curly brown hair half tied-up and a freckled face. I feel a reflexive wave of anger when I meet her eyes, even though I far outdid her yesterday, and it takes a moment before I reply.

“Yeah. It’s Twine, isn’t it?”

“Twi for short,” she sits down next to me. “What’s that you’re learning about?”

Is she really making small talk now? I shove down the judgement I feel and instead don a curious expression. “I’m learning how to start a fire with straw,” I say. “We have a lot of wood in Seven, so conventional fire-starting is easy for us.”

“We don’t have any kind of nature like that in Eight,” she says, and I can’t say I’m surprised. Even if she’s been thoroughly cleaned by her prep team, I can still smell the soot coming from her, as if it’s been buried into her pores. “Would you mind teaching me?”

 _Why should I teach her when there’s a trainer right there?_ I think, bitterly. _Surely, she can do something better than waste my time._

Noticing my silence, Twi’s eyes flicker with nervousness. “Not that you have to! It’s just – well, you seem nice. And everyone else is so scary. I thought maybe we could team up?”

A proposal and a rejection for allyship in the same day? This really must all be a dream. I look up and down at her; her skinny frame, the way she’s trembling slightly, and know that allying with her means certain death. Even if she wouldn’t alert someone to our location with pure stupidity, she’d slow us down, or stop me from accomplishing my goals. And, as I’d decided the second my name was called, Johanna Mason operates alone.

“Oh Twi,” I say, trying to keep my voice soft. “I’m sorry – I don’t think it would be safe. One young girl on her own in the arena is boring, two young girls are a fun hunt for the Careers.”

She looks crestfallen, but nods. “Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. How stupid I must be.”

“No, you’re not stupid!” I say, quickly, though I’m thinking that exact thing.

“Would you mind if I stay here, though?” she asks. “My district partner doesn’t like me very much, and everyone else is frightening.”

I feel the urge to decline, but there’s a part of me that feels pity for this girl; all alone, searching for some final human connection before her inevitable death. Instead, I nod, and get to work on teaching her how to start a fire.

The rest of the day and the next of training are fairly uneventful. Sometimes Twine and I train together, sometimes we split up. There’s some kind of benefit by having her on my side, because she really is useless at most of the things we do, so I can copy her. Sometimes, the thought creeps into my head that I could sabotage her – teach her how to make a trap so that she ensnares herself or misinform her on which berries are edible. But there’s a part of my brain that always fights back. I’d much rather her death be quick and painless, rather than starving to death, caught in a trap, waiting for another tribute to come and finish her.

After each day of training, Hazel and I head to the garden to talk about what I’ve learnt. She’s curious to hear about Twine, and we agree I’ve made the right choice to decline her invitation to ally. She tells me about the bits and pieces she’s heard backstage by the other mentors; ideas for sponsors and allyships. It’s lucky that I’ve been written up by all of Panem as a lost cause, because it means the other victors are much more likely to talk to her about their plans for their tributes.

It’s after the second day of training that I decide to breach the issue of her Games. We’ve been sat in the garden for a while, she sits weaving a chain of small white flowers, while I’m rocking backwards and forwards in one of the plush lounging chairs that lie around the pathways. Neither of us like to spend time in our training apartment, and much prefer to relax down here.

“I saw some of your Games,” I start, almost uncharacteristically hesitant. She looks up at me, curiously. “Not all of it – just up to the interviews. I was interested, I guess. Sorry, if that’s an invasion of your privacy.”

Hazel pauses, and then shrugs. “And I’ll be invading your privacy in a couple days’ time. It’s fine, Johanna.” And then she frowns. “Why, what did you think?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “You were smart. Charismatic.”

“As if I’m not already?” Hazel gives me a dry look.

“Not quite _charismatic_ ,” I say. “You don’t come across badly; just aloof. I don’t know anything about you.” It takes me a moment to realise that insulting my mentor might not be the best idea, and I try to find the best way to backtrack.

At the look on my face, Hazel smiles. “Relax, Johanna, I was joking. It was an angle, Blight helped me conjure it up. Got me some allies for my trouble; lucky thing too, I would have died without them.”

“Oh,” I say, knowing that I won’t be getting any of those anytime soon.

“As for getting to know me,” she says. “You’ll have time for that after you win these Games. Right now, I’m focused on getting to know _you_.”

I spot the unsaid words already, hanging in the air like a noose hanging from a tree. _I don’t want to get close to you, in case you die._ I suppose it’s fair enough, but part of it enrages me, because it means she’s still not certain I’ll win. Searching for something, anything, to wind her up, I pick the first thing that comes to mind.

“Who was Felicis?” I ask.

At the mention of his name, Hazel’s eyes grow dark and vacant, as if she’s seeing something that I can’t. It takes her a moment to come to, and when she does, I can see that her hands are gripped tightly around her makeshift flower rope, crushing the little white petals to bits.

“We called him Felix,” she says. “I knew him from school.”

It’s common enough, I suppose, to know someone in the arena when you’re from Seven. We’re a large district, but a small one population-wise, and the chances of being picked are higher than just about any other district, except maybe Twelve. It’s a stroke of sheer luck that Ainsley dropped out of school years ago and doesn’t work in the woods, otherwise he’d know about me and I’d have a whole other problem on my hands.

“What was he, your boyfriend?” Somehow, the thought of that infuriates me. Romance in the arena is barf-inducing already, not to mention when _Hazel_ is concerned.

“No,” Hazel almost laughs, shaking her head. “Just a friend. A good friend, actually. Knew him since I was six.”

“Did he make it far?”

Her eyes grow vacant again. “No.”

We sit in silence for a bit, until a white-clad avox arrives and hands Hazel a blood-red envelope. As she opens it, away from me, there’s the sweet scent of roses that fill the air, even though they’re planted on the other side of the flower garden. Hazel stands up.

“Sorry Johanna, I have to head off somewhere,” she says, tucking the envelope into her pocket. “Stay as long as you like, I’ll see you tomorrow when they announce your training scores.”

And with that, she disappears, and I’m struck curiously by her sudden departure. What job would Hazel have to fulfil here that isn’t mentoring me, and is it more important? I feel a jolt of anger at the idea that I am not her own priority here, and I feed it by squashing the remainder of her flower crown into pulp under my feet. When I’m satisfied, I stand up and make my way to my room.

The next day is our individual training sessions. After lunch we’re herded into a side room while they clean and prep the Training Centre for us, and Twi comes and sits down next to me, nervously playing with her beaded bracelet. It’s the closest we’ve been all together, and I run my eyes down the row of us. The Careers sit at the front closest to the doors, some laughing rowdily, and some sat there, in stern focus. The girl from Ten hasn’t joined them, so she’s either declined or they haven’t asked yet. I hope it’s the former, because it means they’ll have her on the top of their target list. On my other side, Ainsley’s hands twitch involuntarily.

And so here, I watch them all, and I see their eyes reflected in mine. All strong, all determined, all utterly terrified. But I know that when the time comes, those eyes will shut. I know exactly where they'd fall; that is to say, at my own hand.


	7. victor's lots

CHAPTER SEVEN – Victor’s Lots

**Hazel**

Johanna gets a three in training, which is a feat in of itself. She does a good job at hiding her glee in her performance, wringing her hands tightly together under a yellow knit blanket and avoiding eye contact with anyone who dares glance her way. Ainsley doesn’t do much better with a four, but it’s at least on par with three other tributes; the girl from Eight, and both from Twelve. Johanna’s placement is dead last, and her televised odds are the lowest I’ve seen in years.

“What on earth did she do?” Blight complains to me, after Cosima sends the tributes to bed. “Sit there and cry into the Gamemaker’s laps?”

“Blight,” I warn, but I can see the pang of frustration in his eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d be feeling the same way. “She’s only a girl.”

“Those other tributes are only children too, and look at them! Did you see the girl from Ten, Hazel? She got an _eleven!_ Remember what happened when I faced someone who got an eleven?”

I don’t need to say the words, only look at the glass replacement of what used to be his left eye. I click my tounge in frustration and open my mouth to speak when he starts up again.

“I know they don’t stand a chance, and I know having you as a victor is probably the only stroke of luck I’ll ever get in this blasted career, but you don’t understand, Hazel – you haven’t _seen_ what it’s like when it’s bad. They’ll go for her and Ainsley like they’re toys and pull them apart just to show the audience that they can put on a good show, because they know they can’t fight back.”

He’s right. In my brief stint as mentor, I’ve had about as much luck as you can get without your tributes winning; quick, merciful deaths. Bloodbath tributes whose sufferings don’t need to be prolonged for entertainment, snapped necks, and quick falls. The death is still enough to make me sick to my stomach; but I think about all the gruesome demises in the past few years of the Games and imagine actually _knowing_ those tributes. Immediately, I feel queasy.

“It’s not always good entertainment for a weak tribute’s death to be exploited,” I say. “Think of Brutus – he still gets hell for what he did to that little girl from Six. Maybe if we get the Capitol to feel bad for them, they’ll make it something quick, and focus on killing the stronger competitors.”

“A pity angle won’t work on both,” Blight sighs, but I can tell I’ve at least managed to perk him up a little. “Not all tributes are as easy to work on as you were.”

I think of sitting in this very same room with Blight four years ago, answering question after question in the smartest way possible. He’d make me re-do my answers when they didn’t sound smart enough, made me read a dictionary for new words to add when I needed to seem particularly impressive. I look at him now; bags under his eyes, crumpled shirt and shoulders sagged. He must have seen something promising in me, if he put the effort in. I think of my other tributes, and then Johanna. Perhaps the promise I see in her was what he saw in me – and if so, maybe the outlook is more promising than it feels. 

And then, I think of Johanna in the arena. At the mercy of the Gamemakers; beaten to a pulp by spiked maces, skin burning off by acid rain, or falling down a pit of venomous vipers. Suddenly the outlook isn’t as promising as it was a moment ago.

“Be nice to Ainsley tomorrow,” I remind him. “Don’t go distant again.”

Blight sighs, and I can smell the fumes of alcohol on his breath. Perhaps Ainsley and he aren’t so different after all; both turning to some kind of substance to deal with the pain in their lives. Perhaps that’s why he’s so worried about a gruesome death – maybe he’ll see himself in Ainsley’s. I wonder what Blight was like, before his Games. Was he the bright-eyed carpenter the Capitol makes him out to be, or did he always have the tendency towards jaded addiction like he does now?

I suppose I’ll never know. Whoever that boy was, he died with all the other twenty-three tributes in his Games. Just like the old, short-haired, keen-minded Hazel did. I wonder, if Johanna wins; who will she become?

-

Whatever it is – by the time we’re halfway done with our individual training, I hope it’s nicer.

It’s been over half an hour since she’s finished practicing etiquette with Cosima, and Johanna is still ranting about how ridiculous it is that she’s expected to walk in high heels. It’s infuriating, because I _get_ it, I had to go through the same thing – but my eyes are still keen on the clock and we don’t have much time left before dinner.

“Listen, Johanna,” I say, when there’s a break in her tirade. “I don’t think it matters much, if you trip in your heels it won’t do anything except solidify the idea that you’re hopeless.”

She considers this. “I’d rather not be a laughingstock.”

“You will be, if you don’t stop complaining and start listening,” I say, dryly. “We need to get this routine drilled into you, because if you fuck up even _one_ time, you’ll be in front of all the tributes and the Capitol, and you’ll be the first person they go for in the arena.”

“I won’t fuck up,” she snaps. “I’ve been doing great so far – I’ve convinced everyone, haven’t I?”

“This is your first extended, solo stint in front of the Capitol,” I say. “Whatever you think you’re doing; it’s not going to be enough. Double it.”

“What, you want me to start crying in front of them again?”

“No,” I cross my arms. “I want you to play the role of a little girl who’s trying her very best to be brave in front of an audience, in order to scrounge up pity points. I want you to be the girl who knows this might very well be her last night alive, who loves her pretty dress and who wants to let her parents know she loves them.”

Johanna pulls a face, and then leans back. “God, I can’t wait until this shit is over and done with.”

“Do you think you can do it?”

She frowns, and then the corners of her mouth split into a determined line.

“I _know_ I can.”

-

There’s nothing I hate more than getting ready for the interviews. Because the mentors are going to be on camera; lined up in the prestigious first row along with the escorts and stylists, I don’t get to skip out of the priming and grooming that I loathed so much back in my own Games. I’m fortunate to have a separate prep team than my old ones – who have been gifted to Johanna – and instead am stuck with a trio of silver haired triplets who gossip about the handsome boy from Two.

Foglia is still in charge of designing my clothes, so I’m spared from her more outlandish choices, but the dark green dress with a decorative feathered plumage at the neckline is still slightly too much than I would have liked. Feathers are the next big thing in the Capitol, and as the most recent female victor; not considering poor Annie Cresta, I have to keep on top of the trends.

I sigh as I look at myself in the mirror, hoisting up the bosom so that it hides some of the cleavage that the Capitol so loves to see. I’m sure some of my benefactors will be in the audience, ogling the newest dress. Perhaps some new bidders, watching the eye candy and deciding who they want to taste-test next. I think of last night, and how I had to spend hours waiting for Balbina Catullus to finally fall asleep before I made my quick escape back to the Training Centre. Balbina is one of the rare female sponsors who I actually despise – usually that kind of distaste is reserved only for the men with leering eyes, and less so the women, who tend to only request conversation – but she did help keep me alive when my burn risked infection, and President Snow loves to make sure that I repay her for my debt. Balbina will likely be in the audience tonight, but at least I can relish in the knowledge that green is her least favourite colour. Checking for the okay from my prep team, I make my way to my seat near the stage.

They’ve sat us in order of victory. Since the victor for the 66th Games has decided to sit this year out – he’s from One, so he gets that choice – I’m wedged next to Finnick and Niké from Two, who are engaged in some polite chatter.

“Hazel,” Finnick says, when he catches sight of me. “I see you’ve got the girls out!”

“I could say the same thing about you,” I say, pointing at his half-unbuttoned shirt. “Why do they bother making you wear shirts anyways, when they’re never proving their purpose?”

“Simply decorative,” he says. “How’re sponsors going?”

“Miserably,” I reply. “And tonight won’t be much help either. Why, what about you?”

“Plenty for the boy, barely any for the girl. God, you’d think they’d learn by now that you need more than just looks to win this thing.”

“Look who’s speaking.” I say, pulling in my feet to let Haymitch Abernathy stumble past us, reeking of spirits. He staggers into his seat, next to Blight, who looks slightly perturbed by his apparent lack of effort to look anywhere close to presentable. Next to him, Blight’s drinking problem looks like child’s play.

“Don’t you think it’d be easy, to tune it out like that?” Finnick says. “Sometimes I think I should turn to the bottle, or to drugs or something to zone it all out. But then I look at the pair from Six, or Haymitch, and I think – do I really want to fade away like that?”

“I suppose you have Annie to look after, too.”

“Yeah,” Finnick rubs his cheek with his palm. “I spoke to her on the phone last night, she’s not doing any better without me around. I wish I could be home to help her.”

“Perhaps you should bring her with you, next year,” I suggest. At his look, I quickly backtrack. “Not as a mentor, obviously.”

“Snow wouldn’t allow it,” he says. “She’d _distract_ me from my duties. Plus, I don’t think being back in the Capitol would do her any good. But thanks, for the suggestion.”

At that moment, the lights dim, and the crowd begins to rumble. Caesar Flickerman appears, in crimson red, all waves and toothy smiles. I like Caesar; he’s one of the few Capitol citizens I can tolerate. In his own special way, he tries to help the tributes, and he makes it a point to meet with each mentor to talk strategy. I did my best to warn him about Johanna’s ‘shy disposition’ and he told me he’d do his best to make sure she’d feel comfortable on stage.

There’s a bit of pre-show banter, and then he brings on the tributes. One by one, they’re paraded on the stage, and lined up to sit at the back while each one gets three minutes to say their piece with Caesar. I spot Johanna shuffling in, sliding her feet a little under the high heels like I told her to. With her dark hair cascading down her back and a fluffy, demure yellow dress hanging around her, she looks every bit the deer in headlights I hope she’ll appear.

The girl from One is very clearly a Capitol favourite, from the cheer that rises as she steps onto the stage. The angle’s unique, because usually Saffron will push either the flirty seductress or the hardened killer. This time, Love giggles and flirts and pulls up the slit of her dress but launches straight into her favoured weapon; a bow and poison-tipped arrow.

“Another redhead with a thing for poison,” Finnick leans into me. “Watch out, she’s coming for your gig.”

“She wishes,” I say, but I feel a pang of fear for Johanna. She could outlast an injury, I’m sure of it, but I know first-hand what poison can do to a person. I wonder if Saffron chose her as a tribute to get back at me. I won’t put it past her.

Both the boys from One and Two play the stoic, cold-hearted killer angle, but the latter does it better. At first glance he doesn’t seem like much more than your standard career, but so close under the stage, I can see his toned arms and the clever glint in his eyes. Circe from Four is another standout, but the real award goes to her District partner, who badmouths her in front of all of Panem and practically invites Circe for a one-to-one the second they reach the arena. Finnick groans and holds his head in his hands, and while I feel a pang of sympathy for him, it gives me a spark of hope. If they’re duking it out, that’s two less Careers focused on killing Johanna.

And then it’s her turn, slowly shuffling to the stage, blinking wildly under the stage lights. Caesar guides her to her seat and whispers something to her; words of encouragement, likely. There’s a smattering of applause, but much less than the usual, and it dies down far quicker than it did for any of tribute.

“Johanna Mason,” Caesar starts. “What a lovely name. Is there a story behind it?”

“It was my Auntie’s name,” she says, softly. “She died just before I was born, so my Mummy named me after her.”

And so it goes, Caesar helping Johanna weave a story of woe. The little girl whose aunt died of some mysterious disease, and then her mother – her fear that perhaps it will come for her next. Her love for the songbirds that sing in the trees, how her favourite colour is blue like her favourite bluebirds. I wonder, by the end of it, how much is true. Johanna mentioned only having a father, but never a hereditary disease that took away her mother. She doesn’t strike me as the type to like songbirds, but neither does she the type to like flowers. All the interview succeeds in doing is throwing more pieces into the puzzle of her that I’m trying to sort out.

And, of course, get everyone to pity the poor little girl in the yellow dress.

The rest of the interviews goes uneventfully; Ainsley tries to throw out a few jokes, but none land. Twine from Eight is sweet, the girl from Ten – Beckett – is confident and goes around insulting the other tributes. Yael from Twelve forgets to speak for a moment. By the end of it, once the lights have dimmed, Finnick and I are agreeing to buy each other drinks at the bar when our tributes die. I hope he won’t be too mad when he sees what Johanna is capable of, but I doubt it. We say our goodbyes; we’ll see each other tomorrow morning in the Donum Room, and I head back to our floor.

Dinner is a sombre affair, eaten in silence. It feels almost like a wake, even though both the tributes are alive in front of us. Nobody eats much, and Ainsley hurries away a few minutes in, followed by Blight. Eventually it’s just Johanna and me, sat in silence at the table.

“I’ll walk you out tomorrow,” I say. “But if you want to say anything now, before -”

“What is there to say?” She cuts me off. “I’m winning, it’s no big deal.”

“Johanna…”

“What?” There’s a look of ferocity in her eyes, something I haven’t seen before. She looks like a caged animal. “Don’t you believe me? I’m going to win!”

“I know,” I say. “You are, you _are._ Just, be smart.”

“I am smart! I know what I’m doing! I’ll kill every last one of them.” Her voice catches at the end, and then finally, it breaks. “Fuck, I’m scared.”


	8. yew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled writing this chapter, I couldn’t bring myself to start the Games yet because I’ve not been in the best mental state recently, so it’s not my best writing. Please don’t be too harsh.

CHAPTER EIGHT - Yew

JOHANNA

I’m on the verge of collapse. I can feel it in my limbs, as all my muscles go weak and my hands start to tremble uncontrollably. Hazel catches me, almost instinctively, wrapping her arms around my shoulder and holding me upright for a moment to steady me. We stand like that for a moment, her rubbing circles in my back while I gasp for as much oxygen I can, as if it’s the last time I’ll get enough breath to fill my lungs. Perhaps it will be.

I don’t know how much time passes, but Hazel begins to lead me to my room. We go slowly; sometimes we have to stop in order for me to steady myself, or to calm down my hitching breaths, but eventually we get there. She instructs me into the shower to wash off the remainder of the makeup smeared on my face, while she sets out to clean up my room.

In the shower, I close my eyes, cranking up the temperature to something near unbearably hot to ward off the shivering. Without much strength to stand, I sit on the floor for what feels like hours, letting myself entirely phase out of existence. Is this the last time I’ll feel warmth? Two years ago, the arena was in the middle of an endless desert. Does that mean that this year, they’ll throw us in some frigid tundra? Despite the heat, I wrap my arms tightly around myself. It feels like every little bit of anxiety that I should have been experiencing all week has condensed itself into this one, exact moment. Am I supposed to be feeling this way, and if I am, what’s wrong with me that I haven’t until now?

Eventually I feel strong enough to stand and wrap myself in a robe. Outside the bathroom, Hazel’s tidied up – redone my half-made bedsheets and cleaned up the dirty plates from my first night in the Capitol.

“What does it matter?” I ask, when I see it. “I won’t be coming back here after tonight.”

“Depending on your physical and mental state coming out of the arena, you might spend a night or two here before your final interview.”

“I might not be coming back here at _all_.”

Hazel looks at me sharply. “Don’t think like that.”

“Well what am I supposed to think?”

“An hour ago, you were yelling at me that you were going to be victor, and how dare I even consider the opposite. Johanna, I understand the confusion, but…”

“Stop patronising me!” I snap. Because she’s right, I _am_ confused. My mind keeps on going back between the two; certainty that I’m going to live, and certainty that I will die. But the thought of being called out on it fills me with rage. “You’ve been doing this all week, acting as if you know so much better than me! You’re no better than me; you’ve let all your other tributes die.”

It’s unfair. I can see it in her eyes the second the words leave my lips, and I regret them, but there’s no way I’m going to take them back. She sits down on the bed.

“I have to phone their families, you know?” She says, after a while. “When they die. Sometimes they don’t know. They look away from the television screen just long enough to miss their child or their sibling die, and it’s up to me to let them know.”

I imagine Hazel on the phone with my father, if I were to die. The thought sends a chill up my spine.

“Why don’t they do it?” I ask. “The Capitol, I mean.”

She looks up, as if she’s worried about unseen cameras or microphones, and then sighs. “To remind us that it’s _our_ fault that those tributes are dead. That it’s _mine_.”

There’s a long silence.

“I’m not going to sleep tonight, am I?”

Hazel shakes her head. “No, you’re not. Maybe in the early hours of the morning, if you can manage it. It’d be good if you did. But in the meantime, is there anything you want to do?”

I think. Talking doesn’t seem like the best course of action, considering the second I open my mouth I feel like I’m about to throw up. But just being sat there, letting my mind sink into worse and worse scenarios feels even worse. I feel like no matter what I do, my thoughts are going to be stuck on tomorrow.

“I’d better at least try to close my eyes,” I say. Hazel frowns at me, but eventually nods and stands up.

“Do you want me to stay?”

I shake my head.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” she says. “Before they send you off. But if there’s anything you need to say-”

“I’ll be fine.” I’m still feeling a little bitter, and a bit embarrassed at my breakdown. Rationally, I know I’ll regret wanting to be alone once I’m in the arena, but I right now, I can’t imagine anything better.

“Alright. Goodnight Johanna,” she stands and walks to the door. She lingers for a bit, as if she wants to say something, but decides against it. The door closes.

I reach for the remote.

I wasn’t going to watch it with her around, I’m not _that_ cruel, but my curiosity gets the better of me. If I die, I’ll never get to find out what happened, and it’s related enough to my own upcoming games that it’ll be enough to distract me from the impending dread that pools in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t watch anything else; it would just feel futile. This might, at the very least, be useful.

The camera tracks someone unfamiliar; the girl from Eleven, according to the graphic under the screen. We see her as her hands wring tightly around her district token and the platform rises, giving way to darkness, and then, to the natural light of the outdoors.

The cornucopia sits in the centre of a vale. On all two of the four sides, jagged, rocky terrain looms, and just to the left of where the tributes are rounded is a river. Its rapids run wildly into the distance of the north and south of the cornucopia, obscured by the thick fog that seems to linger heavily in the air. It’s only through the light of the countdown timer that all the tributes are visible, and I know from memory that the fog only succeeded in disorienting the children foolish enough to enter the bloodbath.

The camera pans onto Hazel. She, like the rest of the tributes, is dressed in a heavy grey jacket and long, form fitting trousers. Her hair is loose, too short to tie up, and on her left pointer finger is a simple wooden band. I frown. I don’t remember ever seeing her wear that around me.

The countdown timer has just arrived forty seconds, and Hazel is looking wildly around the group of tributes. Her eyes fix on a boy with long dark hair – Felicis – and I see her eyes widen in relief. He makes some kind of gesture with his palm to her, and she replies with one of her own. Some kind of code.

It’s smart, I’ll give her that. It’s not as smart – in my mind, at least – when the gong sounds and Hazel goes running right into the cornucopia. My breath hitches, even though I know she’ll live through it, but I’m reminded quickly of why Hazel won her Games; her speed. She’s made it halfway there, grabbed two medium-sized packs, and is already following Felicis out before half the Careers have even grabbed weapons. She’s not all that lucky though – running smack into another tribute, the boy from Three as he makes his way inwards. They both go falling to the ground, and noticing her two bags, he goes to reach for one of them. Hazel gives him an anxious kick to the stomach and scampers up, managing to run just out of eyeline of the girl from Four, who’s armed with a bow and arrow and has begun to shoot. The boy from Three isn’t so lucky.

Felicis has been hanging around the edge, and Hazel doesn’t even bother to stop running when she reaches him. Instead she chucks a backpack at him and they make their way down some kind of ravine. It’s steep and they have to descend down on a near vertical slope at one point, but everyone from Seven knows how to climb, and a tree and a rock wall aren’t all that different when it comes down to it. They seem to take a quick far too soon than is responsible, but the timer at the bottom of the screen assures me that they’d been travelling for an hour, and it’s down to the editing.

As if right on cue, thirteen canons sound. More than half the tributes down in an hour’s time period. I’m about to turn in bewilderment to see if I can research what happened, but the Capitol editors are good at their jobs, and the screen does a hard cut to the fighting at the cornucopia. Turns out, even small looking rocks can make good weapons for tributes who aren’t brave enough to dare into the thick of things, but smart enough to attack those heading out of it.

Hazel and Felicis check their packs; and I know for a fact that they’ve had a lucky break when I see the full canteens of water and dried fruit. They haven’t lucked-out with any sleeping bags, though they do have two blankets and a box of matches between them. Hazel looks at the matches hesitantly, but Felicis’ face breaks out into a smile.

“There’s no way anyone can see the smoke when the terrain is so jagged,” he says, pointing to the highs and lows of the rock formations around them. “We can cook food at dusk.”

“It’ll be cold at night,” Hazel says. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if they try to rain us out at one point.”

“Come on, Haz,” Felicis tries a grin. “Look on the bright side, we’ve got stuff to use! We’re alive! And not a tree in sight! Don’t tell me you weren’t at least a little sick and tired of trees?”

Hazel’s lips curl into a small smile. “You’re not wrong.”

They split up the rest of their packs, which are mostly even, except a small glass vial, which Hazel opts to keep. There’s another death that night – the girl from Six risks trying to catch a fish from the river and gets swept away by the current – but the Careers appear satiated by their haul at the bloodbath and don’t seem to feel the need to go hunting. All of them make it through the day, leaving just Hazel and Felicis, the boy from Twelve and the girl from Three as the remaining tributes. The next few days go fairly uneventfully; the Career pack catches up with the boy and he gets hacked up with a machete.

Hazel and Felicis do well for themselves. Felicis is right about the fire, and they’re able to capture and cook a hare, which they feast on for the next two days. They ration their water, even though there’s the river nearby, and on the third day they stumble on what appears to be a mountain lion. It’s a tense moment, but Hazel chucks some rocks behind it and they break away while it’s distracted. For the most part, the pair spend most of the time making joking, easy conversation with each other. While most of it is for the cameras, you can really tell that they’re friends.

It’s on the fourth day that things really seem to go wrong. Felicis is on watch, and when the sun creeps over the horizon, the world around them seems covered in a thick, blurry layer of fog. At first, I think there’s something wrong with the cameras, but he bats the air with his hands and shakes Hazel awake. They look around in confusion, and then the coughing begins. 

“What do you think it is?” Felicis asks.

“Some kind of poison,” Hazel’s already gathering their things. “They’re probably trying to get us closer together. Come on, let’s move. We might be able to find a real hiding spot before the other’s arrive.”

They start to head back up in the direction of the Cornucopia. I don’t know if their slow movements are to carefully avoid tumbling down a rock slope in the fog, or because whatever’s in the air has slowed their movements. The wall of fog dissipates after about an hour, when they near the river. Looking around, it appears as though nobody’s nearby. The Cornucopia is bone-dry, but the Careers have made their base elsewhere, and if there’s anyone else, they remain well hidden. They aren’t in much of a state to be cautious though, both woozy from the toxins in the air. It’s not long after they arrive that a canon fires, and both exchange a look, but say nothing. They share the last of Felicis’ water to clear out their throats, and Hazel remains on watch while he fills up both their bottles.

“Hey Haz,” he says. “Do you see that over there?”

She follows his eyeline to further down the valley, where there’s a steep drop downwards. The area’s not as foggy as it was on the first day, and they can just see the peaks of green.

“What do you think it is? A forest?”

“Let’s go! There’s got to be more shelter in there than where we were!”

“Hold on – don’t you think it’s a bit suspect? That’s probably where all the other tributes are, and even if it isn’t, this is where we’re supposed to go. It’s probably no good.”

“If anything, we need to get there first, before all the others arrive,” Felicis says. “We can’t stay here; they’ll be here soon, and there’ll be a fight. Plus, I’m not going back in that fog.”

“I understand that, but come on,” Hazel tries to keep her voice down. “It’s not safe.”

“It’s the Hunger Games, Haz,” Felicis says. “Nothing’s safe.”

He’s not wrong. Hazel spends a moment hesitating, but some rustling in the trees spooks her, and she jogs on after him. They make quick time, because they’ve barely reached the edge of the trees when the Career pack comes bursting from the highlands, though the dense fog, and onto the banks of the river. They’re gasping for air, and one of them throws up on the side.

“See, they were much further in than we were,” Felicis says. “Come on, we’ve got a head start.”

And so, they move through the woods. It’s not the normal kind; on either side the rocky terrain looms so that the trees are encased in some kind of valley. But still, the pair feel more at ease than they have in the past few days. They walk for an hour or two, before Felicis stops and points at something.

“Hey, look, a yew tree,” he says. “Just like your name.”

“Huh. Well, let’s steer clear, that stuff could kill you.”

“As if I don’t know that. Seriously, Haz, who do you take me for?”

Felicis steps away from the tree and towards the clearing, which is enough for the person who’s been tracking them to get a clear shot. The flaming arrow pierces right through his eye.

“Felicis!” Hazel lets out some kind of primal scream, and her feet shuffle towards him, but she’s too shocked to catch him. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is some kind of gurgle. A trickle of thick, dark blood comes out of his lips, and Hazel stares at him in horror. A second arrow comes flying, piercing him right in the gut. There’s no saving him now.

Hazel seems locked in place for a moment, her eyes darting from her now-convulsing friend to a few yards back, where just one tribute stands; the girl from Four. Her pupils are so wide it looks like her whole eyes are black, and for a moment, she looks like she’s about to charge the girl.

But then her assailant lights some kind of match and sets the arrowhead ablaze. And, muttering some kind of broken apology to her friend, Hazel runs.

She avoids two arrows before Felicis’ canon sounds. I don’t know how Hazel hears the whistling over the boom, but she dodges just right out of the way, so instead of piercing the back of her skull, the arrow grazes her left cheek. The alight flame is enough to cause her to scream in pain, the skin blistering angry red and her eye closing from the pain. Despite everything, her feet still carry her forwards. The girl from Four starts hacking up, angry and pained, and unable to run any further with the remains of the fog still in her lungs, she turns back, picking the fallen arrows as she goes.

Hazel doesn’t stop running until she’s so deep into the forest that the light barely reaches the ground. Once she’s alone, she slumps to the ground, and lets out an animalistic, grieving scream.

The last few days of the Games are the most eventful. The Careers end up killing one of their own – the boy from Two – when he’s too weak from the fog to continue, and Hazel spends a day walking around in some kind of daze. She breaks out of it when she receives a parachute with some kind of ointment for the burn on her cheek, which had started to fester and shut her left eye completely. It heals within the day, letting her see, and she eventually gets her bearings and heads up to where the Careers have set camp at the cornucopia. 

I’ve seen this happen on highlight reels before, but it never ceases to shock me. It turns out that yew trees are quite plentiful in the small patch of woods that Hazel has found herself in, and using a mixture of water and the berries, she’s managed the fill the glass vial. She’s kept the parachute, so when the time is right, and the Careers are busy watching the anthem, she slips the vial into it, seals it shut and runs out to place.

It takes a while for it to be spotted by the girl from One, and when she looks inside, her face breaks into a smile of relief. She calls over the others, and they begin to argue over who should have it – since there’s only enough for about three of them. Eventually the pair from One claim it – since the girl found it, and they offer the last dose to the girl from Two, who is the next worse off. The camera tracks on Hazel, perched in a tree. It takes a while for the first of the three, the girl, to start showing symptoms, maybe half an hour. Her muscles start to twitch involuntarily, and she complains of seeing dizzying lights. Soon, the other two follow her lead, and the Career pack knows something is up.

Hazel’s face breaks out into a sharp, dark smile.

I switch off the television.


	9. genesis

JOHANNA

It’s dawn when Cosima wakes me.

Somehow, I’ve fallen asleep in the armchair; legs curled under me like a cat, television remote dug into my back. My limbs are tight and tense, and I let out a hiss of pain as I stretch, mind temporarily distracted by my discomfort. Through the door, Cosima takes this as a whimper.

“Oh, my dear,” she says, her voice muffled by the wood. “It’ll be better if you try your best to stay calm.”

Her words bring me back down to reality; to what today means, and how screwed I really am. Despite the terror that sinks into my chest, like an anchor dropped into water, I roll my eyes instinctively at her comment. Awfully presumptuous, for someone who’s never been through it.

Though neither have I. Yet.

She tells me to be dressed and out as soon as possible. Ainsley has already left. That strikes me; I barely talked to the boy, and he’s already gone. The closest thing I could have had to a friend in the arena, and I didn’t say goodbye. I shake my head. There is no need for sentimentality, especially not now. I must leave the few empathetic parts of me here in this room, if I want to survive.

Cosima said to be out in ten, but I’m there in five, shivering in the living room. It doesn’t take her long to grab me, brush me down and tell me all about how yellow is now all the rage in the Capitol because of me. She doesn’t tell me she hopes I do well, or that she’ll see me soon. Cosima is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. When she’s done, she gives me a satisfied nod, tells me Hazel is waiting outside, and walks away.

_What, no hug, nothing?_ I want to say, but I bite my lip. Perhaps Cosima would have been a bit more doting if I’d made an effort. Besides, it’s not like I particularly care. The only reason I hope to see her again is because it’ll mean I lived.

Hazel is sat exactly where Cosima told me, across the corridor, by the elevators. I feel a pang of fear as I see her, and for a second I picture the earnest smile of a girl watching her enemies suffocate to death, but it’s replaced with a hurried, worried glance.

“Did you sleep alright? You don’t look as pale as Ainsley did.”

“A few hours, I think. Where’s Blight?”

“Working out sponsors – he’ll be busy, so I’m taking you alone.”

“We have sponsors?” A flicker of hope sparks in my chest – nobody good, of course, but maybe someone who took pity.

“None that I know of, but if all goes to plan, we’ll be getting calls by sundown,” Hazel doesn’t sound convinced. “Johanna, you’ve got to be careful. No badmouthing the Capitol or anything, they’ll never let you win if you do.

“What do you mean,” I try my best faux grin. “I love it here.”

“Better to be peppy than to be dead,” she sighs. “You ready?”

“No. But it’s not like I get much of a choice, do I.”

“Unfortunately.”

The trip down the elevator is in silence, and though it must take a few short seconds, I feel like it takes hours. Trapped in the small room, my mind spins; visions of my gory demise flash by me in high-quality display, I see Hazel poison me and Ainsley stab me through the chest, and Blight look at me sadly. Instinctively I move away from her, but if Hazel notices, she says nothing. We stop, and when the doors open, we open up on the roof, where a hovercraft hangs in the air.

“Do they stagger the tributes, so we miss one another?”

Hazel nods. “You’re all in there, of course, but you won’t see anyone until you’re in the arena. Most people come up with their mentors; except Twelve, of course, since they only have one. Foglia will help you get dressed, she’ll be waiting in the hovercraft.”

I roll my eyes. Great. So, the last person I might ever see is the person who I hate the most in this whole fucking place.

“And listen,” Hazel continues. “You’ll probably get lucky; you’re perceived as an easy kill, so they won’t put you near any of the high-scoring tributes. As long as you don’t go running in, they’ll leave you be.”

“Not even a bag?”

“If you think there’s even a risk, don’t do it,” she says. “My job is to keep you alive; I don’t need you making it any harder than it already is.”

“I’ll try,” I say, and pause. The hovercraft keeps getting closer and closer and as it looms, the more ill I feel. Eventually, as we’re right under the ladder, I turn back. “Hazel, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not like Ainsley, is it?”

“What?” Hazel frowns. “Elaborate.”  
  
“Rooting for me. Thinking I have a chance. It’s not like how you gave those drugs to Ainsley – to make it easier for him while he was here. You actually think I can do it, right?”

“Johanna, when I say that I’m looking forwards to you being my neighbour, I _mean_ it.”

I’m not the kind of person to give hugs, but nothing stops me from wrapping my arms around Hazel. Murderer or not, she’s the only person in the world that’s really on my side right now. Besides, it might be my last chance.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She nods. “Give them a show they’ll never forget.”

And then, I’m on the ladder, locked into place and being lifted up into the air. Hazel waves, but I can only stare back as her frame becomes smaller, until it disappears from view completely. Eventually I’m pulled up completely and have a tracker inserted into my forearm. Delicately placed, so that cutting it out would risk cutting a vital vein and bleeding to death. Of course. Anyone who would evade the Gamemakers deserves to die.

I’m led to a room where food has been laid out, but I touch nothing until Foglia arrives. It takes her about half an hour, which is about the time when the hovercraft lifts, and when I assume all tributes are on board. She says nothing and takes the seat furthest from me. Suddenly, being in the same room as her is far too disconcerting, and I find myself needing to be distracted. I focus my attention instead on some porridge.

It takes us a while to land, suggesting that whatever arena I’m about to be placed in, it’s not the kind of environment that encircles the Capitol. Suddenly my mind races; will it be scorching hot or freezing cold? Will there be trees? Water? Any cover at all?

Foglia notices my expression and rolls her eyes. “Onwards.”

I bite back a retort. Though there’s no risk in offending her now, I’m afraid another tribute will hear and target me once the gong sounds. I’m led down, far underground, until I’m in the small, metallic room that we call the Stockyard. I’m directed to shower and clean my teeth, though I’m trembling so hard that the work seems futile, and eventually Foglia hands me my outfit to be dressed in.

Boots and a grey coat-like jacket made of rubbery material – waterproof, if I had to guess, though the inside of the jacket is fur-lined. Long sleeved black shirt, form fitting trousers and insulating socks. It doesn’t say much, but I’ve got a feeling that it will be cold in the arena. Foglia says nothing, so her theories remain unheard, and it’s only a few minutes before I’m directed to my pod, where I’ll have to stand until the gong sounds.

“It’s a shame,” Foglia says, as the doors close in around me and I’m lifted up. “Perhaps next year’s tribute will appreciate my clothes more.”

Just as I’m about to be enveloped in darkness, I flip her the bird.

The darkness lasts longer than I anticipated, and I’m reaching the point of claustrophobia where I feel like screaming, when I begin to smell fresh air, and a glint of white. My feet shuffle as I’m blinded by the light, but I keep them still – knowing if I move too far, I might get blasted sky-high. Slowly, the light fades, I hear the voice of Claudius Templesmith echo through the air.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Seventy-First Hunger Games begin!”

Snow. The first thing I see is snow; a thin layer on the ground, spread out all towards the cornucopia. We’re placed in a semi-circle, equidistant from the mouth, which lies on the bank of a lake. Despite the snow-covered ground, the water doesn’t appear to be frozen over, and the lake goes on for miles, encircled by a stone-covered beach. Around the shore, about a mile or outwards is what appears to be a forest. My heart leaps at the sight, and whipping my head behind me, I can see the same lush greenery. The forest seems to ring around the lake, and squinting, I can see high, rocky terrain in the distance, in a similar ring around the forest.

_A crater,_ I think. _They’ve put us in a crater._

I know that there’s more to my realisation, but this was more than I could hope for, and I decide to not focus on it too much. Instead I drive my attention to what’s in front of me – a timer with fourty-five seconds left. I’m at the very end of the semi-circle, meaning that I only have one other tribute next to me, the boy from Six. Three spots down is the boy from Four, my biggest threat, but he looks distracted and I’d wager he probably would be wasting his energy taking up the bet he made with his district partner.

The bounty isn’t as plentiful as I’d have hoped, but there’s a small black bag not too far in. I’m weighing the risk in my head when there’s a commotion halfway across the circle; the girl from Three has thrown up. It happens every couple years or so, the combination of extreme fear, anxiety and gorging yourself is a recipe for disaster for some tributes. I feel bad for the girl, who’s wiping at her mouth. She managed to miss most of her clothes, but Love from One looks at her in disgust from the next pedestal.

Luckily, I’m far enough away that it isn’t too distracting, and I’m able to get an eye count of everyone else – Ainsley is next to the girl from Two, unlucky – as well as press my feet into position just as the countdown hits ten.

Nine, eight, seven – the boy from Six eyes the bag, but I’ll get there first – six, five, four – if I make it to the trees in time, I’ll avoid any fights – three, two, one. I look up to where I assume the camera is and give them the best cocky smile as I can muster.

The gong sounds.


	10. a waste

HAZEL

The Donum Room is silent.

Nobody dares even breathe too loud, as our screens flicker to life, sparking and flaring with numbers and letters; vital signs, geographical co-ordinates, heart rates. Flickering into motion, the camera on the Panem broadcast sweeps over a lush, snow-capped landscape. A rocky beach, distant and jagged mountains, with a forest creeping up the sides up to the timberline. I catch Blight’s eye from across the table, and we exchange a relived glance.

We’re not the only ones. Neither One and Two hide their joy at a climate which will benefit their tributes; forest for One, and mountains for Two. Some of the other Districts aren’t so lucky – Seeder looks crestfallen at the colder temperature. Tributes from Eleven never make it far in snow.

My final observations of the arena, however, fade to insignificance as the tributes rise up from their pedestals. The third and final screen on my monitor blares to life, tracking Johanna as she rises up from the darkness. Her uniform is identical to all other tributes – warm enough to keep her alive, by not warm enough to keep her comfortable – with only her hair, which is done up in pigtails, to distinguish herself from the other skinny district girls. Her eyes narrow in focus, scanning the arena, and then the bounty in front of her.

“Don’t do it,” I mutter. Every single tribute I’ve lost has made the mistake of running in. Even those few metres make a difference.

Blight hisses, as I divert my attention momentarily to the Capitol feed, which is doing a long pan of all the tributes. Immediately I see the issue; Ainsley is right next to the girl from Two – who is shifting between giving him a maniacal grin and staring in disgust at the unfortunate display of nerves by the girl from Three.

“He’ll run,” I tell him.

“He’d better.”

He doesn’t. When the gong sounds, his feet shuffle in distress; as if his mind is attempting to tear him into two different directions. Eventually, the side drawing him to the cornucopia wins out, and he staggers a few steps forward, before stooping to grab some mittens on the floor. It’s enough.

Enobaria from Two lets out a cheer of triumph as her tribute scores the first kill of the Games.

“Fucking bitch,” Blight hisses. He pushes back from the desk and waves an Avox over. “I’ll call his brother. After that, I need a drink.”

It all happens within about twenty seconds, but a chill of horror runs through me when I realise that I’ve been ignoring Johanna’s screen. My panicked glance tells me everything I need to know; she’s a metre or so in, black bag strapped over her shoulder. She doesn’t see the boy from Five making his way towards her.

“Get out of there!” I call, instinctively, even though she can’t hear me. She does, however, hear the thudding footprints in the snow, and whirls around just before his fist comes pummelling down in her direction. He misses, hitting air, the momentum thrusting him forward. Johanna stares at him for what feels like eternity, like a deer caught in the headlights, and I think this must be it.

“You. Little girl,” he says. “I want the bag.”

“No fuckin’ way,” she spits. “There’s plenty over there, see? Go fight with kids your own size.”

He raises his fist again, but Johanna is faster. She socks him right in the face, and then in the stomach. He’s either weaker than he looks, or she’s caught him off guard, because he stumbles onto the snow. His face is flowing with blood. It’s enough of a distraction for her to make her escape into the forest.

Instinctively, I fix my eyes on the livestream, but miraculously, nobody’s noticed her. The two from Four are sparring something vicious, Paris and the girl from Two are encircling the boy from Twelve, and the rest of the Careers are taking their picks from the tributes that still remain. Ainsley’s corpse lies bloodless, less than a metre from his platform, but the rest of the snow has been stained rose red.

“Yew,” Harley from Five calls across the room. “Did your tribute just break mine’s nose?”

Most of the other mentors are preoccupied, but those whose tributes are indisposed or accounted for turn in surprise.

“He tried to attack her.”

“She _socked_ him,” Harley says. “In the _nose_! And she swore at him!”

“I guess the Games bring out parts of us we didn’t know we had,” I retort. I can’t quite justify it, but I don’t want anyone knowing what Johanna can do just yet. Hell, even _I_ don’t know what she can do. Harley doesn’t reply, which probably has something do with the knife in her tribute’s eye.

The bloodbath lasts exactly as long as they usually do; long enough to get people riled up, short enough that it doesn’t become a bore. It ends with twelve dead; including the boy from Four, Fox. Surprisingly, the boy from Twelve managed to escape, despite the hole in his gut, though his district partner was unfortunate enough to fall prey to Love and her bow. _That’ll_ be one for the highlight reels. It’s overall about an hour and a half when the canons start to sound.

“It’ll be easy to track them in the snow, when they bleed, don’t you think?” Finnick’s voice comes from my ear.

“Fuck! You’ve got to stop doing that.”

“Let it, I’ve just had to call Fox’s mum. She’s not exactly thrilled.”

“Oh,” I pause. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he pulls Blight’s empty chair over and sits down. I barely look at him as he talks, keeping close eye on Johanna as she makes her way through the forest. “I knew he wouldn’t last. Least he didn’t have to deal with the worst of it. Though I thought I’d pop over and see how you’re doing before I go over and help Nemoné.”

“And why would you come _here_?”

“Rumour has it that your girl put up a fight with the beefcake from Five. What’s that all about?”

As if to answer his question, the little red phone next to my desk – the red sponsor phone, that I didn’t think I had reason to use – rings.

* * *

JOHANNA

I’m just at a clump of rocks when the canons begin to fire. Twelve, in total. I made it out in good time, but when I’d turned there’d only been about two already dead. I suppose once the Careers had secured weapons, they probably went about with their pickings. Maybe this year they’ll decide to eliminate one other, instead of dealing with the outer district kids. Might give more of us a fighting chance.

I slump down on the nearest rock, winded. I’m used to trekking uphill in snow, but not with the weight of my life on my back. Thrusting my backpack to one side, I examine my left hand. Smeared with dark red stuff – the boy. I don’t know what district he was from, or anything about him, not his interview, nothing. He looked pretty tall and strong; had he been scouted by the Careers? Had he told them about me, were they headed in my direction to send me off before I caused anymore trouble? Who had seen? I grab a handful of snow and smear the blood off my skin.

Drawing my attention to the backpack – the thing he’d wanted to take from me – I decide to finally look inside. I’m lucky enough; a heat reflecting blanket, a packet of sodium tablets, a length of rope, some dried fruit and an empty water cannister. There are things I can do without; water won’t be a problem with plenty of snow, and I’m from Seven, I know how to start a fire without matches. They’re not important. No, what _is_ important is the two sets of detailed, sharp-as-bone knives. 

“Oh, _hell_ yeah,” I grin, making sure I’m loud enough for the cameras to catch me. I may have issues with the other tributes knowing that I’m not a scared little princess, but not the Capitol. No, they can see everything they want to.

Well, maybe not me naked. Not when it’s cold, at least.

I pack up and continue uphill. I know the trees will get sparser the further up I go, but I want to have at least gotten a head start against the Careers. It doesn’t take too long before the sky begins to dim, and I begin to consider bedding down. Sleeping on the ground isn’t an option when there’s nothing but snow, and the ground absorbs heat, but luckily everyone from Seven is a bit of a tree rat. Dinner is a bit more of an ordeal, squirrels and hares are bountiful, but I’m not a hunter and it takes me a few tries before I’m able to spear a juvenile rabbit. Cooking it isn’t an option in the dark, so I string it up in the tree I plan to sleep in.

I don’t, however, bed just yet. In the dwindling light, I take a moment to do a perimeter search of my turf, just in case I need to make a hasty exit. To the north, east and south is more woodland, but to the west I come across a series of rock formations not unlike the ones I rested at earlier today. They’re made of stone I don’t recognise, and there’s a funny scent in the air that rises as I near them; like rotten egg. I take a few moments to peer around before I hear a sharp hiss beneath my feet.

I’m barely out of the way before a burst of steam blows up from the ground under me and up into the air like a geyser. It doesn’t catch me directly, but the blast of heat I feel from the surrounding air is enough to make me wheeze. The scent of rotting egg gets stronger, and I can see what I missed before, a crack in the earth where water bubbles and fumes. I step away from the rocks and observe.

It takes a few more minutes before there’s another burst of jet-hot heat, this time from the other side of the rock formation. There must be some kind of underground hot spring, and I’m suddenly very thankful I didn’t poke around too much. It’s anyone’s guess as to what would have happened if I’d fallen in.

 _But._ I think of the rabbit I managed to kill. _It could be useful._

It’s too late for that now, because it’s starting to really feel like nightfall, and I need to get back while I can still can. I’m just climbing up into my little nest when I hear the anthem play.

Both from Three. The boy from Four is dead. That means the girl won the bet, though I’m not surprised. I am disappointed, however, that most of the other Careers made it out. The boy from Five – oh, that’s the one that I struggled with. The girl from Six. Ainsley.

 _Ainsley_. So, he did die. I didn’t see him after the gong sounded, and I don’t see how he died – that would be unfair – but I feel a pang. I hope it was quick, whatever it was. I didn’t care for him much, but I’d rather he win if I didn’t.

Not that it’s possible.

The boy from Eight – so Twine made it. Both from Nine, the boy from Ten. The boy from Eleven and the girl from Twelve. That’s it. The screen blacks, and I’m shrouded in darkness.

Twelve down. Eleven to go.


	11. quarry

JOHANNA

The rabbit is just about halfway cooked when the cannon fires.

They don’t tell you how loud it is back in training. That’s one thing they don’t prepare you for. I’m lucky my grip on the long stick I’m using as a makeshift spit doesn’t go tumbling down into the ravine below, but it’s gotten colder overnight and my grip is practically sealed shut.

I don’t move, but my heart squeezes slightly. A cannon can mean one of two things; someone’s been incredibly stupid and fallen prey to the arena, or the Careers are out on the hunt. With every fibre of my frozen-stiff being, I pray that if it’s the latter, they’re enough far away from my little encampment. Maybe the Gamemakers will be kind enough to let us get by with only one death today. Certainly, long games can be considered boring, but so are short games. Wouldn’t want the fun to be over before it’s even started, would we?

It takes another half-hour to fully cook the rabbit, and I’m on edge the whole time. Every twig snap, every rustle of leaves, or hiss of steam turns my blood ice-cold. Both of the delicate, ornate knives I’ve been gifted hang loosely on my belt, yet untouched but ready for some action. I’ve been practicing this morning on just how fast I can whip them out into my hands. Normally I’d walk around with at least one in my grip, but I’m at work right now. It makes me feel insecure. Stark naked. If I died because I was distracted cooking a rabbit, I’d be royally pissed.

Eventually the meat looks good, if just a little burnt, and I’m safe to retrieve my skewer. I decide to keep it. It’s been whittled to a sharp enough point that it could be used as some kind of makeshift weapon, and time spent making a new one is time wasted. Hoisting it between my backpack straps, rabbit in one hand and knife in the other, I make it back to my little nest.

I know I should get moving – I’m too close to the Cornucopia for my own liking, and I’m curious about what’s beyond the timberline, but I decide to break first. I spare only a rabbit leg for breakfast, eating slowly, legs dangling off the branch. It’s a trick Father taught me; eating slowly tricks your stomach into thinking there’s more of it. There’d be plenty nights, in deep winter, where we’d have even less to eat than this. Being fed well in Seven is important, but all possible expenses are spared.

 _Father._ I feel a twinge at the thought of him. It seems as though I’ve barely given him a second thought since our goodbyes after the reaping. Where would he be now? The families of the tributes are always taken care of for the duration of the Games; fed, given firewood and a place to stay, if they have none. I wonder, will Father be sat in our dingy little cottage, next to the crackling television, or will he have found someone to take him in?

 _Someone taking Father in._ I nearly scoff at the thought. If I’m unpopular in Seven, Father’s practically infamous. I’d much sooner see him sock someone in the jaw than let them coddle him, even if his only daughter’s in the Hunger Games.

I look down at my own fists. I wonder, is he proud? Surely, he saw me take a swing at the boy from Five; it would have made it on the highlight reel, if not the livestream. I’ve followed his instructions to the letter. It was his idea, the weakling act, after all. Not that I’m entirely surprised – it’s the opposite that got Aunt Isolde killed. Acting overconfident, becoming a target at the bloodbath. It’s also what got Mother killed. The grief of losing her twin sister.

Poor Father. Losing his sister-in-law and his wife to the Games.

 _Not_ his daughter.

Once I’ve sucked the bone dry and flung it to the side – who cares if someone will find it, I’ll have moved on – I decide it’s time to take flight. I’m about a minute uphill when I realise the problem. It hadn’t been an issue further down, where the snow had been thinner, but with the piles getting heavier and heavier the closer to the top I get, the bigger my boot prints become. Tracking me will be a piece of cake, if the other tributes wanted to.

And so, instead, I decide on a change of plans. Heading back towards the rock formation from earlier, I turn east instead of north, travelling alongside the rocks. It’s risky business, but I’ve managed to gauge both what the craters look like, and the tells that one of them is about to burst. Other than the uneven ground and necessary caution slowing down my travel, I make good pace.

I notice the birds about two hours into my trek. At first there’s only one; a flash of dark wings high above my head, shading the sun. It’s a massive thing; its wingspan must be about the same length as if I held my arms wide, and its talons glint in the sunlight. At first I take no notice of it, only mild irritated that it might attract someone to my location. But one bird becomes two, and then three, and I get the curious feeling that they may be following me. My grip on my knife tightens.

“Oi,” I call, as loudly as I dare. This must be a Gamemaker trick – I can tell now. Normal birds would have far more easy prey to target. The fact that they’re tracking me isn’t a good sign. “If you guys would kindly fuck off, I’d appreciate it.”

The birds continue to circle.

I reach for my other knife.

The second my hand reaches the handle, they dive. I’m lucky that I see them coming, and I’m able to leap out of their line of fire, the soft snow cushioning my fall. The first one grazes me, sharp talons ripping into my forearm, tearing at the jacket and leaving dark red stains on the fabric. It’s enough to make me screech in pain, blood spurting from the deep wound. It won’t kill, but it’ll hurt like a motherfucker.

I’m lucky that the adrenaline has kicked in, because I’m able to dodge the other attack without any damage. I swing my knife wildly in the direction of feathers. If they can’t fly, they can’t get me. The tell-tale screech of pain tells me I’ve hit my target.

The fight goes on for god-knows how long. Maybe a minute, maybe ten. It’s all I can do to stab in the general direction of my feathered assailants and try to keep my vital organs and veins unharmed. I remember hearing about a girl who’d gotten skewered through the neck by some birds about half a decade ago. That doesn’t exactly seem like the most pleasant way to go.

I take one down fairly easily, and another with a bit more of a fight, but the third one – the one who dove first – is proving a bit of a pain. We’re both injured – both my arms and my left cheek have received pretty ugly scratches, and both its wings are looking worse for wear – but still standing. I know exactly why the Gamemakers have brought on this attack. I’ve given them a taste of spice at the Bloodbath. Now the audiences want to know if my bite is as good as my bark.

I’ll give them a show.

The bird dives for me again, but I’m quicker. My knifework is sloppy when they’re in my hands, but I’ve been throwing axes since I was a child, and I can hit a target with my eyes closed. The knife is lighter than I’m used to, and I don’t get it straight in the eye like I wanted but embedding it somewhere in the skull is good enough, and the dying squawks of the creature are like music to my ears.

I collapse to the floor, panting heavily. It takes a few minutes before my hands are steady enough to grab handfuls of snow and place them to my wounds. The sting is agonising, but pain is temporary, and infected cuts are not. The ones on my face and right arm are shallow; they’ll heal up in a few days. The one on my left arm might be more of a problem, it’s still bleeding profusely, and my jacket arm is in ribbons. Deciding to ditch it for now, cutting off the sleeve and wrapping it around the wound, I sigh. It’s midday now, but at night, no jacket will be an issue. I wonder if I could makeshift something out of the blanket I received. I’d always thought being from Eight was hopeless in the games, but now I'm wishing I was a steamstress. 

_Now,_ I think, looking around at the bloodstained snow and dead birds. _What to do with these carcasses?_

-

HAZEL

Balbina talks for hours about the birds.

I’m partially grateful to the Gamemakers. Not for setting loose mutts on my tribute, of course. But for setting the spotlight on her. There’d needed to be a distraction, of course – after the unfortunate display of gore this morning by the boy from Six. I’d never seen something so disgusting in all of the Games so far in my life. Even Brutus looked ill. Needless to say, cannibalism doesn’t go down well with the Capitol.

But next to Titus, Johanna is a star. She’s proven herself not only capable at survival, but also as a skilled killer. Her dry quips have gone down stunningly well, and they’ve already been spotlights on her. ‘Johanna Mason – Actress of the Century?” And compared to the brutality of the boy from Six, even her delicateness from the pre-Games is being awarded as admirable. Her odds have skyrocketed.

I had to leave Blight with the phone and the tracker – with strict orders to contact me if anything happened. He’d been mad that I hadn’t told him, obviously, but not as much as I’d expected him to be. Perhaps it had been because of hope, or perhaps because of the glazed look in his eyes. If I wasn’t certain that the Gamemakers weren’t going to bother Johanna anyone, I wouldn’t have trusted him in my hotseat.

But the phone had rung, and kept on ringing, and Balbina pays well. Her penthouse suite is conveniently located next to the Training Centre, and the food is good. The company is not, but it’s a necessary evil. Luckily, this time, the conversation isn’t on me.

“You cheeky girl, Hazel, keeping that from me,” Balbina says, sliding her hand up my arm. In front of me sits a half-eaten slice of berry tart. I’ve struggled eating berries since my own Games, for reasons I should think are obvious. Balbina doesn’t seem to get the hint. “How long have you been hiding that from us?”

“Oh, only about a week ago. Believe me, I was desperate to tell someone.” My cheeks hurt from smiling, and my face feels heavy with makeup. There’s nothing I’d rather do than be in the Donum Room right now. Hell, let me watch Titus eat another tribute’s heart. It’d be better than this.

“Well, I’d almost be hurt, if it wasn’t so exciting. You know, people are saying she should be credited with the kill for the boy from Five. Apparently, if she hadn’t disoriented him, he wouldn’t have seen the knife.”

“I’m sure the boy from Two would love to hear his kill has been taken away from him.”

“Oh, you know how I love Two,” Balbina says. _Ah yes. I’m sure Enobaria loves your company just as much as I do._ “But this year, Seven just feels special.”

“We are special,” I retort. “Only, the climate this year is harsh. And for Johanna to make it, she might just need some help.”

“Hazel. Of _course,_ I’ll sponsor your girl.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “But, of course, I’ll need something in return. Johanna looks like lovely company.”

My blood runs cold. _No._ I won’t. Not when it’s up to me – I can’t make that decision. It’s something Johanna will have to face on her own if she makes it through, and even the thought of that alone makes me feel ill. But not when it’s on me.

“Oh Balbina, but she’s _young_. Surely you’ll have to wait at least two more years.”

“I’m a patient woman,” Balbina says, but I can spot the doubt in her eyes. I’m sure if she had her own way, Johanna would be hers the second she steps out of the arena.

“Perhaps current gratification could put you in a better mood for an easier offer?”

“Hazel?” Balbina’s eyes widen. “I thought you weren’t doing that anymore.”

“I can make an exception. For you.”

“Well,” Balbina stands up. “Consider that a deal well made.”

Biting down the sick feeling in my chest as I follow her into the bedroom, I hope this is worth it.

-

It’s two more hours before I’m back in the Donum room. I haven’t had time to change, so I’m back in the lavender frock I wore for dinner, my makeup smeared and hair messy. I managed to wipe off most of the tear stains in the elevator – for my own dignity, not to hide anything. Everyone in that room knows what goes on when you leave for an appointment. If I’m lucky, by the time I’ve sunk down in my chair, the money will have already appeared.

Blight’s still there, thankfully, but his eyes are deeply trained on his screen. Above, on the bigger monitor, the recap plays; the girl from Five dies for the second time today. I make eyes with Seeder from across the room, and she gives me a sad smile. Perhaps she’s gotten too old to be considered Capitol eye candy, but the look she gives tells me enough to know that she’s been in my position. I sink down into my chair, ready for a boring old recap from Blight. Instead, what I hear is the opposite of anything I expected.

“Johanna’s got an ally.”


	12. money shot

**CHAPTER 12 – Money Shot**

**JOHANNA**

My knife is on the girl’s neck before I even register who she is.

Truth be told; I’m pissed. Today has officially been the worst day in a week of increasingly shit ones, staring when Cosima called my name at the reaping. I lost my rabbit in the struggle with the birds, even thinking about my wound sends pain shooting up my arm, and without my jacket, it’s been fucking _freezing._ The last thing I need today is for some stupid girl to try to kill me.

It takes a moment in the dwindling light, but I feel a flicker of recognition when I spot the amber eyes and curly hair. My grip on the knife is loosening; I’m cold, weak, and the snow makes the handle slippery, but I do my best to keep it steady. Twine’s pupils dilate in fear.

“It’s me! Twi!”

“I know,” I say, my voice coming out breathier than I intend it to be. My arm seizes in agony, and I’m painfully aware that I can’t hold it up for much longer. “Did you follow me?”

“Not far! Only about ten minutes – I was camped by the juniper bushes. Johanna, please. Don’t kill me.”

I pretend to spend a moment deliberating, but my grip is already loosening. Twine doesn’t stand a chance against me once we actually come to a fight, but for now, she’s a lot more useful alive than dead. Two tributes together equal more camera time for both of us, and I need as many sponsors I can get. Bitterly, I shiver and look up at the darkening sky. Surely _someone_ must have sent some money.

“Thanks,” Twine breathes, when I drop the knife to my side. She eyes the one at my belt, with half fear and amazement. “Where’d you get those?”

“Cornucopia. I was lucky that I was on the very end and I only had the boy from Five to fight with. What about you?”

Twine gestures to the bag she dropped a few metres before entering my clearing. “A sleeping bag and a first aid kit. A few protein bars. Oh, and some matches.”

I eye the bag, feeling a wave of bitterness at its size and contents. “How’d you get it? Did you go in?”

“Oh no,” Twine’s eyes widen at the thought. “I ran straight for the woods, but I’m not used to snow, or trees, so I tripped. I was just getting back up when the boy from Three ran through with the bag in his arms. He got shot with an arrow. Whoever shot must have been distracted, because they didn’t come after him, and I managed to pull the bag from him. Got out without a scratch.” She grins a big, toothy smile, apparently proud of herself.

“Must have been Love.”

“The girl from One?” Twine rubs the back of her head with a shaky hand. She must be freezing here. “That makes sense. She’s one of the scary ones.”

“They’re all scary,” I say. “That’s the point.”

“What happened to you?” She asks. “You seem far more confident than you did back in training.”

I decide there’s no point keeping up an act around Twine – it’s not like she can do anything about it – but admitting deception doesn’t feel like the best course of action. Instead, I change the subject, and fill her in on what’s happened; the scrap with the boy from Five, the geysers, and the birds. Once she sees the ugly wound on my arm, Twine runs to fetch her first aid kid.

“You don’t have to,” I say, though I eye the disinfectant and bandages with fervour. Twine only shakes her head. “No really, they’re yours.”

“And before they were mine, they were the boy from Three’s. Listen, I know I asked you before, but it feels a little different now. Allies?”

I sigh. I don’t want to say it out loud, at least, because I’m sure allying with Twine will lose me a few sponsors, but sharing the pool with Eight may not be a bad idea, and in order for an allyship to be official, it needs to be agreed verbally by the tributes. And, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’ve been feeling a bit lonely. “Allies.”

Twine gets the work on the wound. She’s not particularly adept at the task, but any amount of bandages and disinfectant is better than none at all, no matter how sloppy the application is. As she cleans the wound, we begin to talk about the other tributes.

“Who do you think’s strongest, out of the ones that are left?” I ask. It’s come to mind that I haven’t really spent time learning about the others – though I should have. That was one of the things Hazel had told me to do.

“The Careers, obviously,” Twine starts. “The girls from One and Four in particular, those are Love and Circe. I wouldn’t be surprised if they betray the other three or split off on their own at one point.”

“Really?”

“Yeah – from the look of them at training, they don’t really like the others. Circe killed her district partner, so she’s definitely _able_ to betray someone.”

“Who else?” I’m listening intently. Perhaps Twine can be good for something.

“Winnifred from Ten. I think she killed someone at the Cornucopia, but I’m not sure. And Titus.”

“Titus?” I frown. “Who’s that?”

“The boy from Six.”

“Really? Him? I can’t remember anything about him. Was he the one who talked about hovercrafts in his interview?”

Twine nods, but shudders visibly at the thought of him. “I know it’s stupid, but there’s something about him that just feels _off._ I can’t quite place it. We have a term back in Eight, for people like him. It’s like he’s a fraying thread, about to snap, you know?”

“Like Annie Cresta?” I think of last year’s sobbing victor. “She couldn’t kill a fly if she tried. We’ll be fine.”

“Not like Annie,” Twine’s eyes narrow off into the distance. “Different. More ominous.”

“You’re being stupid,” I say. “There are plenty more dangerous tributes to worry about than the boy from Six.”

Twine appears to open her mouth to speak, but she’s cut off by the anthem. Above us, the sky flickers with the Capitol emblem, and then the face of the girl from Five. She looks down on us with unblinking green eyes for what feels like hours.

“Wonder how she died,” Twine breathes, when the anthem has faded, and her face has disappeared. Of course, they won’t show us. That would be unfair. It’s a rule I’m _very_ happy is in place right now.

“Doesn’t matter now. Come on; we better set up for tonight. It’s gonna be a cold one.”

**HAZEL**

“So, do you want to tell me why you kept this a secret?”

Ah, so Blight’s sobered up. I wince at the words and turn to my left, where he’s sat down next to me. His appearance is about as shabby as it is year-round, meaning he’s at least made some kind of effort, even if he smells like he hasn’t showered in a few days. Across the table, I see Cecilia look up, and then back down. Allies tend to sit together, but she knows this conversation isn’t for her.

“She asked me to, Blight. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not listen to her? Tell me? Fuck’s sake, Hazel, you really think I couldn’t have helped you?”

“You had your own tribute. Need I remind you that while we’re on the same team _now,_ we were still at odds yesterday. You could have told Ainsley. Where would that have put her?”

“I wouldn’t have,” Blight says, seeming to stiffen at the boy’s name. “He was a lost cause from day one. Hopeless.”

“Well, Johanna isn’t. Listen, I’m sorry – okay? It’s not that I don’t trust you as a mentor, god knows I would have died without you having my back. But I need my tribute to trust me as well.”

He leans back. “Well, whatever, cat’s out of the bag now. Just don’t get me wrong, I will be bitter if it only takes you three years to bring back a victor.”

I crack a smile.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Cecilia speaks up, and my smile disappears. Of course, it’s no good to smile about winning when there’s another district at the table. “But Hazel, your sponsorship request has gone through.”

“It has?” I snap my gaze back to my screen, where I can see that, yes, the little green light is flickering. Immediately I press the button to accept and sit back and wait. On my other screen, I see Johanna and Twine sitting up a tree and talking in low voices. Twine frowns at points at the sky.

“Do you see that?”

They both turn their heads above them, to where the tell-tale silver of a parachute descends onto the snow with a satisfying thud. Johanna is the first to leap down off their perch and tears into the basket, eyes widening at the sight.

“What is it?” Twine calls.

Johanna holds out the jacket triumphantly. It’s better than the standard tribute uniform one, made of real, thick wool, with a waterproof outside. Twine’s eyes widen. “Good catch, huh?”

“You must have real nice sponsors.”

“Apparently,” Johanna pulls on the jacket with satisfaction, letting out a heavy breath. “Don’t have to worry about freezing to death now. Thanks, Hazel.”

“Hazel? Is that your mentor?”

“Yeah,” Johanna climbs back into the tree. “She’s alright.”

 _Alright?_ I frown. _I’ve been working my ass off for you._

“I like my mentor,” Twine says. “Cecilia. Some of the girls at my Home used to babysit for her when she’s away for the Games.”

“You’re an orphan?” Johanna asks.

“Yeah. What about you?”

“I’ve got my dad,” she says. “Mum died when I was little.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Johanna pauses, and then lets out a bitter laugh. “Sucks to be us, huh? Both of us have at least one dead parent, we’re in the fucking Hunger Games, and it’s bloody cold.”

“Cheers,” Twine says. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You got any alcohol, Hazel?” Johanna asks. They sit in silence, as if expecting my response. _You bet your ass if I had money for booze in the arena, I’d have sent you every weapon in the catalogue first._ “Eh, I thought not.”

Twine giggles, and I see Johanna frown. She’s going to have to kill her, at one point. I just hope she’s ready for it.

Blight agrees to take watch for the night, since he slept through most of the day, so I’m allowed a rare reprise back to my room. It feels wrong, returning back to the Seventh-floor tribute-less, but I try my best to pay no mind and focus on showering and getting to bed. I turn the live feed on in my room, just in case, but the arena is dead, and the Capitol has apparently had enough action for today. I’m just about asleep when the little red envelope gets placed under my door.

I’m groggy enough to ignore it – another sponsorship I can deal with tomorrow – but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of my head, and I can’t fall asleep without it. I pull myself out of bed and onto the floor, not bothering with the letter-opener on my desk and tearing at it with bare hands.

The rose-scented paper and black ink jolts me wide awake. Head Gamemaker Faustus Cohen wants a meeting tomorrow morning.


	13. double dealings

HAZEL

Faustus Cohen is a short man in his mid-forties, with dyed silver hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He gives me the impression of a slightly disgruntled owl; wide eyed behind his circle-rimmed glasses, fluffed up by the brown fur coat that hangs behind his chair. He sits at the end of a long table, the skyline of the Capitol hanging behind him as he watches me step into our pre-designated meeting room. Next to him and his crisp Gamemaker uniform, my simple black dress feels like rags.

"Hazel," he says, his voice high and clear. "It's lovely to finally meet you."

He doesn't make the effort to meet me halfway, so I have to walk the length of the inordinately large meeting room to shake his hand. Cohen wasn't the Head Gamemaker for my games, which puts me slightly at ease, but he's already not off to a great start. I bite the inside of my cheek. Don't let anything show, Hazel. The life of your tribute is in his hands.

It seems Cohen knows exactly what I'm thinking, because once he's gestured for me to sit, he gets right into it. "Johanna Mason."

"That's the name of my tribute, yes," I say, when he doesn't elaborate. Part of me hopes I'm not coming across as too rude, but another part of me could care less. I'm tired, stressed, and the slower this man talks, the longer it takes me to get back to the Donum Room and to Johanna's aid.

"She's an interesting one. Certainly, feistier than we were first lead to believe."

"Thankfully," I press my hands down to stop fidgeting. "She's a fighter."

"And an actress," Cohen continues. "A talented one, at that. She had me fooled from the start. Didn't quite believe it until she started swearing at those birds."

"That's our Jo. Foulmouthed to a fault."

"Did you know about her little stunt?" Cohen asks, almost innocently. There's a subtle change in his body language, however; the way he leans forward and lowers his voice. Something that almost seems threatening.

"Yes," I say. There's no point lying, not when everything in the Capitol is bugged. I'm sure they've already gone through all of the footage from the train and the flower garden. The only reason Cohen's asking is because he wants to gauge my reaction.

"Makes sense, of course. Wouldn't want anyone finding out; it'd put a target on her back. Whose plan was it, yours or hers?"

"Hers. Seemed like she'd thought of it before her name was even called."

"Smart girl," Cohen ponders. "Well, I thought you should know, President Snow isn't very fond of the deception."

 _Ah._ There comes the chink in the armour. It'd crossed my mind, briefly, but I'd decided to ignore it in place of the more pressing matter of keeping Johanna alive past the first day. But now, the repercussions of the lie are rearing their ugly heads. And what hideous heads they are. Fooling the other tributes is one thing, but fooling the _Capitol_ is another. It makes them seem oblivious. Manipulatable. All of those things, Snow would very much despise.

Cohen continues. "All things considered, in a normal year, Johanna would never be allowed to survive."

"But this year isn't a normal year." I echo.

"No." He folds his hands more firmly on the table. "The inner district alliance is unstable; we have an absolute psychopath in the arena, and the audience is in shreds deciding who to support. Not to mention the issue of last year's victor. I'd very much like to avoid my predecessor's mistake and crown someone who's _not_ completely off their rocker."

"And you think Johanna's a contender for that spot?"

"One of them. Of course, we could crown one of the inner district tributes, or even the girl from Ten, if we wanted to appease the outer districts. But support for Johanna has risen exponentially in the past few days."

"It sounds like you already have your top eight mapped out."

"Us Gamemakers always have our preferences," Cohen says, tapping his fingers on the table. "We don't control everything, of course. Too much interference would make for a very dull game. But, if we want to keep someone alive, we try our best."

"So, what does that have to do with me?"

"I have a request," Cohen leans in. "Follow it through, and President Snow and I will be keener to make sure your tribute doesn't get caught in the crossfire."

My heart skips a beat, and I have to bite the inside of my lip again to suppress a physical reaction.

Cohen repeats. "Hazel?"

"What is it? The request?" I ask. I don't know if it's nerves, or the strong chemical scent in the air that's making me feel woozy.

"I've gotten wind that there's been talk of an anti-Capitol alliance between some of the victors this year. I want you to find out as much as you can and report back to me."

"Anti-Capitol alliance," I repeat. The real word goes unsaid. _Rebellion. He means there's a rebellion._ I'm not all-too surprised; nobody talks about their hatred for the Capitol, but words go unsaid amongst the victors, and I know that there are those who would act, if give the chance. Part of me feels thrilled. Part of me feels terrified. And a third, tiny, part feels upset that – if it exists – I haven't been approached yet. _There's a rebellion, and Cohen wants me to betray it._

"Only murmurs, of course," he continues. "But treasonous speech must be punished accordingly. Do your part, and I'll make sure Johanna stays alive."

They must have something planned, then – like the dam burst last year, or the earthquake half a decade ago. Cohen's offering to make sure Johanna lives through it. If I play my part. If I betray the districts.

I think of Johanna, drowning, or being crushed by rocks. I think of my fellow victors; Zircon, Blight, Finnick, Cecilia – all strung up on a tree.

"Fine. I'll do it."

Cohen smiles. "Good. I'll give you the number of one of my apprentices; Plutarch Heavensbee. He's the one you contact if you've learnt anything."

"You promise Johanna lives?"

"Johanna lives." He leans back, finally, away from the table. " _If_ you play your part. Good luck, Hazel. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have a game to run."

I sit there, stone-still, as he gives me a firm nod, smile tight-lipped and cold, and exits. Thoughts run through my mind like flashes of dizzying light. Does he truly think I'll be useful as a mole, or is he doing this to scare me away from joining the rebellion myself? He can't kill Johanna now; the Capitol will be in riots. Or can he? Surely, they'd be just as happy with a Career victor. Would I really be ready to betray the people I call friends to keep my tribute alive? Would I be ready to sacrifice Johanna to protect a rebellion I didn't know existed until moments ago?

Finally, I understand what Blight means when he says he needs a drink.

JOHANNA

Twine is officially the stupidest tribute in the history of the Games.

It's not very difficult to keep watch. In fact, I'd argue it's one of the easiest possible things you _could_ do. We do it all the time in Seven; on a long trip into the woods, when it's too cold and dark to turn back, and we bed down for the night. Someone keeps an eye out for dangerous animals while everyone else sleeps. It's the typical symbiotic relationship. You have someone's back, and you expect them to do the same.

And yet, when I wake up, bleary eyed and drowsy, Twine is curled up on her end of the tree, fast asleep.

Part of me wants to slap her awake immediately and yell that she could have gotten us killed, but I suppress the urge. I have a feeling that petty arguments could go down badly with the Capitol audience.

Instead, I sit up and stretch, my joints frozen stiff. My arm still hurts something rotten, but at least it's clean, and with the jacket, I'm warmer than I have been since the attack. I feel a lingering flicker of glee at my first sponsorship gift and the knowledge that I have people rooting for me.

Needless to say, I probably have a lot more to do if I want to climb up in the rankings. Almost instinctively, I look down at my knives, and back at the sleeping form of Twine.

 _Not now,_ I think. _Not yet, at least. She's more useful to me alive than dead._

I'm still mad, however, and with the grumbling of my stomach getting louder, I decide to blow off some steam. If Twine wakes up and I'm not there – good, she deserves a fright. Besides, she'll be stuck up the tree until I come back to help her. It's good enough revenge as anything.

Light is only beginning to streak through the sky, meaning it's not the best environment for hunting, but as luck would have it, I'm able to spear an injured bird. It's small and won't provide too much meat, but I get a sense of sweet vindication at taking the life of another avian creature. _Fuck those birds from yesterday. Fuck 'em._

I'm perhaps too involved in my bitter reminiscing of yesterday's events to hear the crunching of snow-covered footsteps in time. I'm fast enough, however, to whir around and back closer to the clump of rocks I travelled over yesterday, just as the figure emerges.

It takes me a moment to place her; dark, close-cropped hair and pale skin. The girl from Two. She stands tall and straight, almost towering over me, axe in hand. Her eyes gleam with masochistic glee.

"Looks like it's my lucky day," she says, hoisting the axe up. "It won't be an interesting kill, but at least you'll make it easy."

Her feet go flying, and the axe goes slamming down, but I know axes like the back of my hand and make it out of the way just before it slices my arm off. It gets embedded in the snow, and she grunts loudly, hoisting it back up. I take the opportunity to quite literally stab her in the back.

"Fuck!" Two groans, blood splattering across the snow. "You little bitch, where'd you get that from?"

"Oh, please don't hurt me," I hold out my hands, praying to everything out there that she doesn't notice the other knife at my belt. I don't even have to try to get my voice to shake. "I was just trying to save myself."

"Since you asked so nicely." She rolls her eyes. "I wonder, how does decapitation feel? You'll have to let me know."

"I promise I'm not a threat," I start, but she's already begun to make her move.

I'm lucky she's not expecting it, because the second knife in her gut sends her reeling. She swings wide and the grip on the axe loosens, letting it go skittering across the snow. She shrieks, both in anger and in agony, but I know it's not enough to kill her; maybe if she bleeds out, but I didn't hit any vital organs. She'll be back at the camp and I'll be dead before then. I need to think fast.

I hear the tell-tale hissing sound by the rocks.

We make eye contact for a moment, and both of our gazes drift towards the axe. She makes for it first, but I run forwards. She's heavy – far heavier than I anticipated – so it's sheer luck that she's weak enough to be taken by my blow and is knocked far to the ground. She coughs up, thick dark blood, as the knives in both her back and front dig into her flesh. I step back.

"What-" she begins, but she's cut off by the furious jet of hot air.

It's painful to watch, as she's blasted into the air and slammed back down to the ground, with a terrible crunching sound. Whatever geyser I was using to cook the rabbit, it's not even half as strong as this one, because her skin is blistered, bloody red. Her left eye seems to be liquefied, her body's bent at all the wrong angles, and she lets out the most horrible, gurgling scream.

I fight to keep down last night's dinner.

She lies there – and I know she's not going to be moving for a long time, if ever – as I stare at her, catching my breath in heavy gulps. _I did that. I did that to her._ I'm no stranger to gore; viewing the Games is mandatory, after all, but seeing it right in front of me, at my own hand, is enough to feel myself phasing out. Suddenly I understand Annie Cresta.

_No, Johanna, focus. She might live. She might live and she won't win, but if the other Careers find her, she'll tell them about you. Think. Think._

The axe lies a few feet away.

It takes me a long time to gather the courage to walk up to it. Two's moans in the background nearly send me running for the hills multiple times, but something about holding the axe steels me. It's a sturdy thing, shiny-clean and deathly sharp. It reminds me of being back home, in the woods. If I close my eyes, I can almost picture being back home in Seven.

Except I'm not in Seven. I'm in the Hunger Games, and I've just cost a girl her life.

 _It's merciful,_ I think, as I step over her twisted body, raising the axe. _She attacked you. She'll be in less pain this way. It's what's best._

Somehow, that doesn't make the sound of the canon feel any better.

I must be on autopilot, because the next thought I have, and I'm far away from the clearing, and on my way back to our camp. The axe is still in my hands, and I must have taken back my knives, because they both hang, bloody, from my belt. I'm just about in eyeline of my tree when I have a thought. Finding another clump of those rocks, I pick out one that's shaped almost like a heart and place the axe under it. It takes a moment to hide, and another moment to clear the knives, but it's worth it as I make it back to camp and see Twine's face.

"Johanna," she gasps. She's up in the tree, face ashen, staring down at me in shock. "What happened? I heard the canon and you were gone. I thought you were dead."

"I went hunting," I say, trying my best to keep my voice even. "Heard the canon. I thought it was you."

"The hovercraft came from nearby. Did you see anything?"

"No," I take a deep breath. "Nothing at all."


	14. (dis)trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel encounters her fellow victors and considers her position in the rebellion. Caesar asks for an interview. Johanna tries to keep her kill from Twine, all while finding herself getting attached to the girl.

**HAZEL**

Enobaria gives me a curt nod when she enters the room a few hours later.

It's courtesy, of course, to not abuse other victors for their tribute's kills. It's part of the game; everyone in this room has had to kill to get ahead, and we all understand what the odds are. You can't blame a child for trying to survive. Still, I'm relieved that Enobaria isn't the kind of person who treats in-game events like her personal chess match. As far as victors from Two go, I don't mind her.

Even the particularly horrific kills aren't faulted by the mentors, for the most part. Of course, back when Helena from Two specifically told Brutus to gore the youngest tributes he could, she was firmly told she'd no longer be respected in the Donum Room. But the victors are a mostly understanding lot. That's why the pair from Six haven't felt the brunt of Titus' kill. Most of us just ignore one another when the Games begin. We know who the real killers are, and they're not sat in this room, or in the arena.

 _We know who the real killers are._ I click my tongue and risk a quick glance around the room. My pupils are burnt dry by the light of the monitor, throwing little sparks around the heads of my fellow mentors. Who had Cohen been talking about? Surely not One or Two; Queenie and Saffron are posterchildren for Capitol lapdogs, and Brutus and Enobaria stand to lose too much. What about Three? Is that why Zircon hasn't made it this year? Or what about Finnick? Has have the years of being used like Snow's personal bargaining chip finally worn him down? Cecilia? I risk a glance to my left. Blight?

At my glance, he turns to face me. His one good eye is red and bleary, and half his hair is still scrunched up from his nap hours ago.

"I think it's finally quietened down," he nods at the red sponsor phone. Ever since the fight, almost half a day ago, it's been buzzing with all sorts of attention. Sponsors lining up to shove me their money, magazines begging me to fill their pages with false gossip about Johanna's love life, concerned friends offering me their two cents of survival advice. Even Caesar has reached out for an interview. "But if you want to go wash up, I'll keep an eye on things."

"No, you go. She's my tribute."

Blight breathes in deeply. "I want her to come home just as much as you, Hazel."

"Of course. You know that's not what I meant."

He stares at me, for a good, long while; both eyes bearing deeply into mine. Blight's gaze has always been disconcerting, even without the glass pupil, but especially now, it feels too intense for comfort. "It's perfectly natural to be protective. She's the first one you have hope for. But it's just one kill, Hazel. You've seen what the other tributes can do. Her odds are higher now, but she's nowhere near a victor yet."

"You don't need to patronise me, Blight. I know what the odds are; I've been in the Games same as you. You don't think I know that she got lucky?"

"You're tired. And snappy."

"I'm _stressed._ And you're being fucking condescending."

"I'm telling you to take a break."

"And I'm telling _you_ to get off my back," I lower my voice. Cecilia isn't at the table, but I don't want any of the other mentors knowing that I'm peeved. "Do you think Johanna gets any breaks in that arena?"

"You can't give up everything to make sure she lives."

"Oh yeah?" I look at him dead in the eyes, disconcerting gaze be fucked. "Watch me."

I pull my monitor across, not bearing to see his face for a moment longer. Normally I appreciate Blight's presence, but right now, every word he says digs into my rage like nails into flesh. I don't think I'll ever be an equal to him, not really. To him, I'll always be the scared little girl before the arena. A scared little girl who – if my suspicions are correct – he doesn't trust with thoughts of a rebellion.

Well, bad news, Blight. That scared little girl knows all about that rebellion.

I'm hungry and tired, and apart from the girl from Ten spearing a fox, the arena's uneventful; but I refuse to take a break until Blight's off duty. Cecilia's happy to keep an eye on the girls, with a promise to send someone to me if anything interesting happens, and with a sense of warbling security, I head to the cafeteria.

The food's always good, but it could be cardboard for all I care. The motions of shovelling spoonful after spoonful of rice into my mouth are autonomic, and I find myself phasing in and out of focus. Every so often I'll feel the familiar twinge of panic at the through of Johanna caught out in the arena, which will then fade into the gnawing anxiety at the thought of an underground rebellion, and finally into the piercing discomfort of Cohen's gaze. On all accounts, I'm fucked.

' _Jeez, you look a mess, Haz.'_ I can almost imagine what Felicis would say if he could see me now. Picture him, sat across from me; hair tied into that stupid ponytail, all string-bean lanky, lopsided grin plastered on his face. Arrow stuck right out of his left eye.

' _As do you,'_ I'd reply. ' _What's with boys from Seven and losing their eyes?'_

' _Do you make it a habit to go around insulting the dead?'_

' _Not unless they're the figment of my best friend,'_ I phantom smile at the comeback. Any onlookers must thing I've completely lost my marbles. _'I've missed you.'_

' _Fuck you. You won over me, you bitch,"_ he'd say, but he'd smile. _'I'm not here for pleasantries, I'm not real. You need something?'_

' _What do you think I should do?'_

' _Keep her alive,'_ he'd say. ' _Trust nobody; no side, just yourself.'_

' _Screw over a rebellion?'_

' _If there's a rebellion, they screwed me over.'_

' _Supposed that's fair.'_ I'd say, and Felicis would have rolled his eyes as well as a dead boy with an empty left socket could have.

"Ah, Hazel, just the girl I was looking for!"

At the sound of a real voice, I jump, the sound of my falling spoon making a clattering noise on the floor of the cafeteria. Caesar Flickerman winces, and bends down to pick it up before I have the chance.

"Oh, sorry," I say, rubbing my eyes. "Lost in thought."

"To be expected," his voice seems softer than usual. Of course, he hams it up for the cameras; the real Caesar is a pretty mellow guy as far as things are concerned. Cares for the lot of us more than half the Capitol combined. My trust for Capitolites goes about as far as arm's length, but I like Caesar. "How're you holding up."

"About as well as you'd think. Tired, stressed and pretty fucking on-edge, but she's alive."

"Think you'll be ready for a TV spot tomorrow?"

"Snow's booked one in?"

"Thought it'd be better if you agreed on your own accord," Caesar grimaces. "But yes. People have been begging to hear the behind the scenes on Johanna's perfect ploy."

"If it's not too long."

"I have it on good authority that nothing will happen to Johanna in the half-hour slot you'll be on air." He holds out his hand, though I know I'll have no option but to shake it. At least this'll be a better alternative to getting sponsors than visiting Balbina again.

"There better not," I say, shaking it.

* * *

**JOHANNA**

Twine's mouth hangs wide when the sees the face of Two in the sky.

"Careful," I say, trying hard not to look into the eyes of the girl I laid down. If I look up, I might see her again; all bruised and bloody and twisted. I don't want to be sick. "If you keep your mouth open, you'll catch a fly."

"There aren't any flies. It's too cold. And _besides-_ " she gestures up towards the sky. "She's dead. _Dead._ Someone got her."

"Good for them," I keep my eyes firmly on the ground. "And good for us. That's one less Career to look out for."

"What if they get to us too?"

"Listen," I say. Twine's hair is frazzled, and her doe eyes are so wide they could eclipse the sun. "We don't even know it was a tribute that killed her. For all we know she might have eaten something poisonous, or fallen into a trap, or gotten mauled by a bear. All we know is she's dead, and we're alive, so we're winning."

"I don't want anyone to die."

"Hey," I hiss. "Don't let anyone hear you say that, okay? You think the Capitol likes to hear that shit?"

Twine shakes her head, and I roll my eyes, but pass her one of our few crackers. She takes it, and we sit in silence, watching as the anthem fades and the dim light of the emblem disappears, casting the arena into darkness. Part of me regrets telling her to shut it; she could have continued making herself look bad and me look better. But a second part of me feels bad. A second part of me agrees with Twine – because I don't want her to die either.

Which all things considered, is a very, very bad thought to have.

"So, what's the plan tomorrow?" I continue, because I can't bear to be alone in my thoughts for as long as they'll keep replaying the death of the girl from Two. Twine frowns, twisting her lips together.

"Hunt?"

"We're a bit low on stocks, aren't we?" I shake my bag dramatically. "You any good with that?"

"I've never even seen land like this before," she says. "There are the occasional rats on the streets, but nobody eats them. They're diseased."

"How appetising," I say. "Well, we don't hunt in Seven – not legally, anyways – but we all know how to take an animal or two down, so I can teach you some tricks."

"Like bears?"

"Nah," I shake my head, digging into my pack for my own share of crackers. "The logging parties are too loud for them. Some curious ones will find their way into town, sometimes, but they're easily scared away. Usually it's wild dogs you have to look out for."

"And you can take them down with knives?" Twine gestures at the one at my belt. It took a lot of convincing, but eventually I conceded and gave her my other. If it came down to it, I'd overpower her easily. Though, judging by how easily she's taken to me, I don't think she's the one who needs to worry about betrayal.

"Traps, usually. Or axes, if it comes to that." I try my best not to think of the girl from Two and her axe. _My_ axe now, really.

"I wish I was from Seven," Twine says. "You guys have such an advantage."

I try not to take it the wrong way; not when Eight has only has three victors in its history, but something about the comment sends my blood simmering. "With the Careers monopolising the field? Not so much."

"I suppose. But you must have had what, five? Six?"

"Six," I say. Two dead; one from illness, the other from suicide. Cove – won the 13th, confined to immobility – Lupus, or Loopy, like most people call him – drowned in gin, usually. Blight. Hazel. "It's only since Hazel that we've had two mentors with enough braincells between them to chop down a tree."

Twine sniggers. "I'm glad I got Cecilia. Woof scares me."

"Is that the old guy?"

"He's big," she shudders. "Cecilia's nice."

"Didn't she stab someone twenty-seven times?"

"Cecilia's _nice,_ " she repeats. And then she pauses. "What would you do if you were victor?"

"Take a long nap, probably."

"But after that?" Twine leans in closer to me, as if she's expecting me to divulge a secret. I feel a funny pang – like the feeling of lost friendship, or like the connection to a younger sister I never had. I blink, hard. "How would you live the rest of your life?"

"Pretty dully, I guess. Visit the Capitol every year. Cut down trees in my spare time. Maybe I'd start baking or something stupid like that."

"I can't see you baking," she giggles. "But what about big things? Like love?"

"Love?" I roll my eyes. "Twine, you can't be serious."

"I said, call me Twi _,_ " she says. "I'm just asking. I've been in love with a boy in my class since I was twelve. His name's Darley. He's probably watching – oh gosh, that's so embarrassing."

"I'm sure he doesn't care," I say. Twine, no, _Twi_ doesn't seem convinced. "Seriously. If you win, I'm sure he'll go on a date with you."

"You sure that stuff isn't important to you?"

"Fuck no. The only 'Love' I'm preoccupied with is the girl from One. Now come on, do you want to take first watch. You'd better stay awake this time."


	15. on show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel is interviewed by Caesar. Johanna and Twine encounter other tributes.

**HAZEL**

The lights in Caesar's studio are so blinking I have to squint to stop myself from tearing up. I don't know how he does it; stood next to me, all toothy smiles and rosy-cheeks and clean-cut suit. It's taking all my willpower to not claw this tight black dress off my skin with my bare hands. Would make for an interesting news story. Make me a more interesting victor.

"Hazel, it's been too long," Caesar begins, words directed more to the camera than to me.

"A whole _two_ years," I try to keep my voice as perky and upbeat as they had trained me to after my Games. They had to bring in an expert, when Blight was no help. "Don't tell me you found more exciting guests, Caesar?"

"Nobody could match your charm," he says, but we both know it's the truth. By Capitol standards, I'm particularly dull for a victor. My stunt with the berries was fun while it lasted, but I didn't give them much of the gore they so craved. Nor am I much of a laugh riot. At least I'm considered pretty by their standards. "But we're not here to talk about you."

"No, of course not. Now tell me, what exactly do our friends at home want to know about Johanna?"

"Hazel, the people have been crying out. Begging for a response. They want to – _we_ want to know; did she really plan to play the weakling from the beginning?"

I ponder this for a moment but decide it's better to tell the truth. As much as Snow and Cohen may dislike her methods, Johanna's done nothing wrong. Lying might catch me out, and I can't risk either of us being in the Capitol's bad graces. "From the moment it was only her and I on the train, I knew there was something else behind those eyes. She's a quick thinker. Stubborn, too. She set her mind to the task and didn't budge; she _was_ convincing those tributes. Nearly convinced me, at first."

"So, she confided in you? Let you in on her very own personal game of chess?"

"Oh no, Caesar, it's not a game of chess. It's a game of survival. If you think too far ahead, you'll get caught up by your own pieces. People are unpredictable, and she knows that. She's not several steps ahead – she's only a leap. But to answer your question; yes. She did confide in me."

"Some astute understanding of your tribute you've got there. I assume you know her well. Mind letting us into some of the more intimate parts of Johanna's personality?"

Another trap; I can't let them know because truth be told I don't know all that much myself. Out of all few days we spent together, all our talk was of strategy. Survival. Neither of us wanted to get to know the other very well. On my part, mostly because I didn't want to get attached. On her part, an element of disinterest, I'm sure. I'm an item for her survival. But of course, I can't tell Caesar that.

So, instead, I bullshit. "Well, I'm sure I'll leave most of it for when you eventually talk to her next. But I'll give you a fun fact; her favourite kind of flowers are red ones."

"Well, well, listeners," Caesar leans into the camera like he's about to tell them a secret. "She's being coy. Fine, Hazel, you can keep your secrets for now. I'll ask you about something you _can_ answer; Johanna's alliance with Twine. How do you see that panning out?"

"I think they're both useful to one another in different ways," I say. I don't want to be caught badly by those in either camps; those who enjoy the alliance, and those who want Johanna to kill Twine as soon as possible. "Johanna is an asset to Twine's survival, and Twine helps Johanna perpetuate her image."

"But it won't survive forever, will it?"

"No," I feel the same sinking feeling in my stomach I did when Blight told Felicis and me the same thing about our own alliance. "It won't."

"And Johanna's kill? What are your thoughts on that?"

"It's impressive to kill an Inner District tribute so early on, but she has more to show. From what I know, she's particularly vicious with an axe."

"Yes, _yes._ And she does have one stocked away, doesn't she? Oh, how exciting! Now, as you know, Hazel – Johanna polls second on the Capitol's favourite to win, after Love from One. How would you feel if she came out victorious?"

"Relieved. Vindicated. She's the one I saw and _knew_ she'd pull through," I can't help the smile that creeps onto my face. "It's like I told her. I'd want her as my neighbour."

"Very sweet words from our most recent victor from District Seven. Now, folks, that's all the time we have tonight but-" I zone out for Caesar's closing spiel, wondering if what I've said is enough. I feel like I haven't done anything to help – except maybe get the buzz out there – and there's still the lingering ounce of fear that perhaps I've done more harm than help. What if I've royally screwed over and put Johanna in more harm than help. Thousands of possibilities swim by, before I'm brought back to earth my Caesar's hand on my shoulder. "How was that?"

"As good as it possibly could be. Do you think it works in her favour?"

"You've humanised her, for sure. Whether that works is anyone's guess, but I'd wager so." A fully look falls across Caesar's face, something strange when contrasted with his usual toothy gleam.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, it's just-" He looks around at the camera crew, packing away. Nobody's eyes are on us. "It's sick. These children are dying and here I am, asking you about Johanna's personal life. All of it, the lights, the makeup; all while nine children freeze to death in an arena. I can't stand it."

My eyes practically bug out of my head. "Caesar, you can't just _say_ that. You don't know who's listening."

"In this studio? Nobody." He eyes the camera crew, who continue to pack away like little robots completing a programmed task. "I just hate it, Hazel. All of it."

I wonder, is this a trick on Snow's part? Has he concocted a plan to try to get me to agree with Caesar, to incite some kind of rebellious speech from me? Or is Caesar telling the truth – is this how he really feels? The thoughts swim in my mind, enough to make me feel dizzy. I don't have time for this. I need to keep Johanna alive, that's it. Rebellion be damned.

"I should go."

Caesar gives me a look; a curious look. Another one I'm not quite used to seeing on his face – not a frown, exactly, but something akin to confusion. Perhaps concern, if I look hard enough. "The show will air tonight. Perhaps get some sleep?"

"Cecilia's taking over the girls' night watch," I tell him. I don't tell him that the only reason I trust her with it is because I'm convinced the Gamemakers won't have anything planned tonight. Odds are they're probably getting things ready for the final eight interviews.

"I'll talk to you soon, Hazel. And remember, if you need anything-"

"I'll call you, I know," I don't mean to sound snappy, but I'm tired. And confused. And mad, because if Caesar really is playing into Snow's game, my respect for him has been lost threefold. "Goodnight."

The ride to the Training Centre is quiet. It's early in the morning and most of the Capitol isn't awake quite yet, so I'm saved from the crowds of people plaguing the streets like moths to a flame, trying to get a glimpse of their favourite victors emerging from their rooms. I'm nearly at the Donum Room when I realise, I'm still in the same sheer black dress as earlier. It physically pains me to have to tear myself away from the sanctity of my tribute's side, but as I step through the threshold of my room, I'm suddenly grateful I made a pitstop.

Because on my bed sits a crisp white letter with my name on it.

Usually I'd tear it away, dump it on my desk to be read at a time when I can handle another one of Snow's meetings. But this letter is white, not red, and a tell-tale sniff comes back with no trace of the sickly roses that so often come bearing bad news. The inside only has a phone number, and the name _Plutarch_ , written in scrawling, loopy handwriting.

So, someone wants a meeting.

**JOHANNA**

It's been two days without any activity, so I'm not surprised when I hear the Careers coming.

Twine hears them first, sitting bolt upright. We'd been sitting on a fallen log, sharing some of our precious rations, listening to her explain the intricacies of dress design. Now we're dead silent, hearing the crunch of casual footsteps heading in our direction.

She panics, eyes wide enough to make an owl jealous, and leaps to her feet. She scrambles for the knife I'd given her, but I slap her hand away, hard. The small whimper that escapes from her lips is enough to make my blood turn to lava.

"What, are you stupid? You don't stand a chance fighting back," I try to keep my voice barely above a whisper, for fear that I'll attract them to our presence far sooner than necessary. "We get out of here, now."

"What about a tree? We could climb?"

She won't be fast enough, but I don't tell her that. Instead I grab her hand and yank her into a run. We get a head start, but it's not enough; Career eyes are trained to spot movement, and these woods are too sparse to hide in. I hear the yell of the girl from Four, Circe, and stifle a curse. She's deadly with a spear. I risk a glance behind me, where Twine is struggling to catch up with my pace. The boys from One – Paris, I think – and Two are there, tailing Circe as she takes up the head. Love must have been left to guard camp, wherever that is. I count my lucky stars they don't have an archer amongst them.

My eyes dart around the foliage. My first instinct would be to confuse them, head in one direction and then another, but I have Twine to worry about and I doubt she'd follow my train of thought. Already she's beginning to hack and heave, the pollution from Eight that's corrupted her lungs coming to taunt her. The thought crosses my mind to leave her, but for some reason a stronger part of me refuses.

 _Come on, Johanna, you have to let her die sometime._ I want to toss her to the wolves so badly, but when I turn to see those begging eyes, I realise I can't let her go. So instead, I run.

It feels like hours, but it must only be minutes, until I realise that we're running parallel to what appears to be a cliff face. I hadn't noticed it before – venturing too far east was a no-go when the trees got sparser – but now that we're here, I take a slight shift left to gauge the fall. It's far down, but not too far. Not all steep, from the side; no trees and enough snow to cushion a fall. The Careers are catching up with Twine, and it's our only shot.

"Twine! On three, we jump!" I point to the drop.

"You're joking, right? We'll die!"

"And I'd rather risk a snapped neck than a spear to the gut!" Circe is closing in, her dark ponytail swaying and her spear glinting. "I'd risk it if I were you."

"Fine!"

"Three, two, one!"

I make the leap. Luckily, I'm right, the snow is just about thick enough to soothe the painful crunch of rock on bone, but it doesn't make it any form of gentle. I have just about the wherewithal to wrap my arms around my torso, protecting any damage to my vital organs as I roll down the steep slope, faster and faster until I land at the bottom with a heavy thud.

 _Fucking hell._ My body feels bruised in about a hundred different places, and I know once the adrenaline slows the pain will be threefold, but for now I don't think anything is broken, so I need to get moving. I stand up, world spinning, just as Twine makes her ungraceful stop down the mountainside. Unlike me, there's the unpleasant crunch of a broken ankle, and the sound she makes is unbearable.

From up above, the Careers peer down on us. Circe looks royally pissed, but the boys appear unfazed by the experience. There's no way down, not unless they want to take the tumble, and with heavy packs and weaponry, it's a bigger gamble than reward. They start talking, and Paris points back in the way they came. _Better to leave them to die_ is the impression I get from him, and eventually Circe concedes. A wide grin breaks across my face. _They have no idea who I am or what I can do._

"Johanna," Twine says, after a moment. "It hurts."

My attention is drawn back to my ally, who lies on her back in the snow. I can't see the harm from under her boot, but a ginger hand to her foot is enough to know that it's not just twisted. Broken bones never work out for tributes in Games, and I can see the realisation setting in her eyes. Her breathing starts to hurry, and I have to place a hand on her chest to get her to slow down.

"Okay, okay. We'll get you to someplace less open, and then we'll have a look, okay?" She nods, and it's only then that I look around. We're on some kind of ledge overlooking the arena. To our left and right is more forest; it appears the mountain we're on has some kind of spiral formation down the side. In front of us, distantly, I can spot the golden shine of the Cornucopia, and across the lake, on the opposing shore, the second mountain. I wonder if the Careers have made their base in the middle – able to hunt between the two peaks with equal discrimination. I see no figure at the base of the lake, however. Whatever Love is guarding, it's not within sight.

It takes a while to get Twine to her feet, and even longer to help her hobble towards the forest. We must walk for about an hour, taking numerous breaks, until I begin to notice breaks in the rock face. Cracks, which slowly become bigger and bigger caves. I decide on one; not too big or too small, and help Twine in, laying out the blanket and sleeping bag for her to rest on. She lets out a shaky breath.

"I'm dead, aren't I, Johanna?"

"Shut up," I say, laying out her supplies. "It might be a clean break, I can pop it back into place, I just need a splint or something."

"No, I'm dead, you should leave me. You should-"

"I said, shut up," I snap. "You stay here, I'll get you something to use. You're not dead until I say you're dead, capiche?"

"Why are you even helping me? You could have killed me a long time ago?"

"Because," I say, hoisting the bag on my shoulders. "You make me seem less annoying to the audience. And you're alright company."

She gives me a small smile. "Thanks, Jo."

" _Johanna,_ " I correct. "I'll see you in a minute."

The woods further down the mountain are denser, and I find myself thinking of home, and I search around for something to use as a splint. If I squint, it could be a January morning in Seven. I could be foraging for spare firewood to warm up Father and I's ramshackle cottage. The thought makes me feel strangely dizzy. Home seems far more than a million miles away.

The sound of rustling sends my heart leaping, and my hand goes straight to my knife. Carefully, I detach myself from the tangle of branches and bushes I found myself in and peer towards the sound. Surely a tribute would have heard us, so it must be an animal. If I'm lucky I may be able to score Twine and I some game for tonight. After the day she's had, she deserves it.

But it appears, as I peer through the trees and onto the staggering form of the boy from Six, I'm mistaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Haven't caught up with you in a while, we're getting to the good stuff now! Just wanted to let you know that this is now going to be a full series! That's right, I'm going to be writing at least one (1) whole sequel following what happens to Johanna after the games, up to canon events, because I've been having so much fun with this! But we're still in the games now and I'd love to know how you're finding it so far! Any comments would be greatly appreciated, they fuel my soul!


	16. hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna meets Titus.

**JOHANNA**

He's tall. Shaped like an oak; broad shoulders and torso, but surprisingly slender arms. He's from Six, which I know little about, apart from the fact that they're involved in transporting all of the supplies from one end of Panem to the other. Whether this boy is some tough-skinned engineer or a well-fed mayor's son, I can't tell.

I can tell that I could kill him though, here and now. He's unarmed and hasn't spotted me. The woods here are dense and I know enough about trees to find the right spots to slip behind and remain unseen. One well-timed attack and a good hit to the back of the neck could send even the strongest of Careers down without much of a fight, let alone a boy from Six. I risk a glance down at the knife in my hand. Will it be strong enough to withstand a blow of such magnitude? Suddenly, I wish I hadn't hidden that axe. I'd be able to find it easily enough, if I remember the path back up the mountain, but it'll be hard to hide my retreat from Twine.

 _Twine._ My thoughts return to the girl in the cave; shivering, wild hair tangled, ankle askew. I shouldn't leave her long, but I can't allow this boy to get away. A tribute so close to us is another unneeded threat, and I don't think the Capitol would look favourably on any form of mercy. Perhaps for any other tribute, it would be seen as a smart, tactical move. But not me. I've shown them I can kill. Now that they've gotten a taste for it, they'll want to see more.

The boy from Six, who has been rustling in the undergrowth, suddenly stands up. He faces away from me, almost attempting to be stone-still, but he appears to be swaying slightly. His left pant leg is ripped, as if he fell into a pile of thorns, and there appears to be blood smeared down his jacket. Either he got off lucky at the cornucopia, or this boy has killed someone. I cross my free fingers tightly by my side. I hope more than anything that it's not the latter.

And then, all of a sudden, Six lurches forward. His steps are lumbering. Mechanical. I'm surprised that he hasn't been found yet, with all the noise that he's making. Surely the Careers are making their way down the mountainside now – I'd be hard pressed to believe they're tracking Twine and I down, but I'd never know. I need to get to this boy before they take the kill from me. Still, part of me feels hesitant. If he's made his base in this part of the woods, he may have things I can use. Let him lead me there and then take the plunge. Show the Capitol I'm not just ballsy, I can use my brain too.

Still, as I tiptoe behind him through the trees, I can't help but feel unease pool in the pit of my stomach. This isn't like the girl from Two. I felt no fear then, only adrenaline, and she _was_ a threat to my life. This is an outer district boy with empty hands and torn trousers. By all accounts, he's about as dangerous as Twine is.

We walk for a while, zig zagging through the underbrush, and I'm just beginning to wonder if this boy isn't a pair of matches short of a fire when the squirrel hops out from the undergrowth and right into his path. It's a small red thing, curious tail perked up and nose twitching in the air. These aren't the fearful animals back in Seven; scared away by rowdy logging parties and the threat of ending up on someone's plate, these creatures haven't seen any humans before the tributes were unleashed upon the arena. I'm just thinking about how cute the little guy seems, when Six pounces.

Now. I understand the need. It's called the Hunger Games for a reason, and even as relatively well-fed as I've been, the gnawing pain of an empty stomach edges on my every waking moment. But the way that Six grasps the thing, like it's a ragdoll and takes a big, meaty bite out of it's still-squirming form makes my starving stomach want to empty up anything that remains in it. But it doesn't. And even though my hands start to shake, and I've made up my mind here and now that I'm not killing this boy, because only someone too far gone to consider anything but _kill_ and _survive_ would snarl and tear like this, I can't move. I can't move and I just stand and stare, transfixed as the boy smears the last remains of the creature across his face, like war paint.

_So, this is what the Capitol thinks we are. Animals kept in cages; thoughts only to kill and kill and kill with blood and entrails and teeth and jaws. This is who I've been put against. A wild creature, a mutt._

He walks, and I follow on. I don't know why, and I know I should go running back to Twine. Yell at her to get up, for us to run back to somewhere safe. Suddenly I want nothing more than to be back in the Training Centre, in my awful, stifling Capitol room with Ainsley next door and Hazel down the corridor. I don't want to be here anymore. But I have no choice. And so, I walk.

And I'm _stupid._ So stupid that, when I realise, the cold chill that runs down my spine is like being stabbed. But there's nothing I can do, not when we're so close to the rocky face of the mountain and not when this boy is being so loud. I can only hope Twine is smart.

But, she's not.

"Johanna?" She's loud, her voice a dead giveaway to her location; the very cave I left her in. "Jo, is that you? Are you hurt?"

I don't see Six's face, but I sense the rush of excitement that runs through him. The pure exhilaration of the hunt, as the lumbering gets faster and faster and the ragged breathing becomes panting. The knife's still in my hands, but I can't _do_ it. I can't move fast enough, I can barely move at all, just enough to see his next move. He steps into the mouth of the cave.

"What did you do to Jo?" That's Twine's first question. Not _who are you_ , or _what are you doing?_ She sees this boy, blood smeared across his mouth, and, voice shaking, she asks about me. "I've got a knife. You can leave me alone, or I'll use it."

The boy mumbles something, a garbled mix of consonants and letters that make no sense to anybody but him. As I get closer, I can hear her breathing; failing attempts to remain steady and calm.

"I don't know what you're saying – no really, stand back, I promise, this knife is – no, please _no_!"

The first thud hits so hard, it echoes across the rock face and out into the forest, sending birds scattering from the trees. Twine's scream sounds like she's ripping her throat out, something so desperate and feral it sends a shock down my body. My legs give out in front of me, and I stumble forwards, just enough to get a glimpse of what's happening in the mouth of the cave.

Six has a rock. A big one. He must have found it on the floor by the entrance to the cave. It's in his hands, lifted up high, and he brings it down on Twine. Once. Twice. Her screams are in time to his blows, howling, animal noises that make every nerve in my body seize up in terror. Six continues, bashing the rock down on her body until her torso is mashed to a pulp and the screams become whimpers, and then gasps. He continues, up until her owl eyes, glazed over with enough pain to drive someone to insanity, gaze right past him and out of the mouth of the cave. Onto me.

It feels like forever. And then Twine's canon fires.

But Six _doesn't stop_. He keeps going, keeps bashing her lifeless body with the rock like she's a plaything. And I can't move. Everything's slick with her blood; the cave floor, the walls, the snow outside laps up the red stuff and slowly spreads it out across its surface, like tendrils of red smoke. He hits and hits and hits until a single red claw reaches out and grasps what remains of Twine's heart from the pulp that used to be her body. And this boy, no, this _creature,_ takes a bite out of my friend.

I run.


	17. word in wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel makes a deal.

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Word in Wonderland**

**Hazel**

_Tonight._ That’s what it says on the tiny slip of white paper. The Avox shrinks back away into the crowd, taking with her the only remaining shreds of possible information I could gauge. I frown, driving my eyes into the looping font, willing it to give me something, _anything_ else. I don’t think this is the same handwriting as my previous contact, so this must be Cohen’s Gamemaker friend.Plutarch Heavensbee. I feel my blood run icy. ‘Tonight’ better not mean what I thinks it does.  
  
Blight’s voice comes in greeting before the hand on my shoulder, but I still jump, batting it away with a fist holding the now-crumpled paper. We get a few looks from the others, but not many. Most people evacuated the Donum Room at the first sight of Titus’ gory display. Those of us with either less sense , or in my case, responsibility to stay, are worse for wear. Even Blight’s face looks a slight shade of green, and it’s been hours.   
  
“Sorry,” I lower my hand, feeling my face flush. It’s not uncommon for most victors to jump at a pinprick, but I’ve always felt embarrassed whenever it happens publicly.   
  
“Thought you might want a coffee,” he holds out a cup. I take it, graciously. I can’t stand the taste, but anything strong enough to get rid of the acrid taste in my mouth from watching Twine get cannibalised on-screen is gift enough. The warm cup seems to scald my hands, and it’s only now that I realise how cold and numb they are.   
  
“What’s the word like in Wonderland?” I ask, taking a big sip of the stuff.   
  
“Nobody’s happy. Not the Districts, or the Capitol, or the Gamemakers. Hell, I think even Snow’s ready to throw a fit over this one.”  
  
“Wonderful. Finally, something to unite us all."  
  
“Opinions are mixed on Johanna, though. Some people think she should have killed them. Other people thing she was smart, running away. One things for sure, it humanised her.”  
  
I look at her now, on screen. Once she’d had the wits about her to bolt, it’d been a mad scramble through the snow-packed undergrowth. It reminded me of my days in the forest after Felicis had died; the frenzy of frantic movement with no purpose or rhyme to it. Only, Johanna did seem to have a purpose, because hours later she’d returned at the spot where she’d hidden the axe. She sits now, grasping onto it like her life depends on it, murmuring words so soft they’re barely audible to the camera. _He’ll die. He’ll die._  
  
“Are you sure humanising her is a good thing? She doesn’t seem weak."  
  
“In a normal year, maybe. But all of Panem is horrified. If she wasn’t in a state, I think they’d all be disgusted,” Blight says. Raising an eyebrow at my bewildered expression, he continues. “You can check out the gossip columns yourself, if you want."  
  
“So, she’s fucked up. What next?”  
  
“Depends what they’re doing with Titus.”  
  
My attention gathers back to the crumpled-up paper, and I click my tongue. It hadn’t been mere moments after Twine’s death that the mentors from Six were gathered up by a disgruntled-looking attendant and whisked away to some meeting. Nobody’s said it out loud, but we all know what they’re in for. “Do you really think they’ll kill him?”  
  
“Oh, they’ll never let him live,” Blight says, casually, slipping into the chair next to me and leaning back. His back cracks painfully and I give him a worried look. State-of-the-art capitol technology can do anything, but not when he won’t admit his body is deteriorating. “I’m sure they’re in talks about it now. City’s in an uproar. _Now_ they’re finally pissed about the unnecessary murder of minors. ”  
  
I give him another look, this time hesitant. It always worries me when Blight talks like this. “What about Johanna?”  
  
“We wait, I guess. Give her time.”  
  
I think about the letter. _Tomorrow._ And then about my own experience, back in my Games - scrambling through the wood, dizzied by pain and visions of my blood-soaked friend. It felt like time had ceased to have all meaning. Only after the Games did I realise it had been three whole days lost. _Three._ Johanna might not even have one.   
  
“She’s on the same mountain as Titus, Blight,” I nearly whisper.  
  
“They won’t kill her,” he replies. “She's a fan favourite.”  
  
I think of Cohen and his owl eyes, palms pressed up against the table in an earnest need to lap up all the information I had. _I’m not so sure.  
  
_ We sit there for a while, drinking our coffee in silence, until Cecilia re-enters. I know all of us try not to stare, but it’s hard not to. She’s fighting to hold it together, but between her crumpled clothes, tear-reddened eyes and frazzled hair, I’m not sure she’s succeeding. I resist the urge to give her a hug. It’s not good showmanship when my own tribute is still alive, and I can’t risk getting anything leaked to a gossip page now.  
  
“She was a good girl,” Cecilia mutters, picking up random items from her desk. Nothing seems to be of use - blank pages, hair ties and clips - but none of us have the heart to mention it. “A _good_ girl. She didn’t deserve that.”  
  
Blight speaks up first. “At least she’s not suffering any more.”  
  
It’s the wrong answer. “She shouldn’t have been suffering at _all,_ ” Cecilia looks up, eyes frenzied. It’s the first time since her Games that I see the same gaze in them that I did when she won; the shaking girl, burnt bloody from the scorching sun, holding the gut-covered mace that won her victory. “She didn’t have to die - why did they _pick_ her.”  
  
“Cecelia -“ Blight tries again.  
  
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot feel,” she spits, and turns on her heel out of the room, leaving behind her the remains of the few things she came to pick up. We sit in silence for a moment. Blight pulls his head into his hands.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
“Blight,” I reach out to hold his forearm. “It’s okay. You’re both upset.”  
  
“No, it’s not okay!” Blight reaches up, his hands twitchy. “This is the third time I've had an argument this week. First you, then Haymitch, and now Cecilia. What the fuck is wrong with me?”   
  
“You know I was being a dick too,” I pause, and process his words. “Wait, Haymitch? What would you want with Twelve?”  
  
“Nothing,” he says, quickly, but I don’t buy it. I’ve never seen him and Haymitch interact, not even once - despite winning consecutive years. Why would they be talking, let alone arguing. Something nags at the back of my brain, and the slip of calls to my attention yet again.  
  
“Blight, come on.”  
  
“Leave it, Hazel. It’s none of your business. Why do you care so much?”  
  
It’s risky to test it, but I decide to risk it. If Blight has no reaction, case closed. But if he does, maybe it’s something I can use. “I just heard there were a group of victors involved in certain talks. That's all."  
  
His eyes widen. “Who told you?”  
  
 _Bingo._ I hesitate for a moment. Who reasonably would know, and tell me. “Zircon.”  
  
“Hazel,” Blight’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You don't talk about this here, do you hear me? You don’t talk about this _anywhere._ ”  
  
“I just -“  
  
"No ‘justs’,” he shakes his head. “Fuck, you’re too young for this, Hazel.”

“Fine,” I raise my hands. But I know I’ve won. “Fine.”

We remain there for a while, until I think it’s time. Not much happens - Johanna hauls herself up a tree once it’s too dark to see, and hides her head under her sleeping bag when Twine’s face is shown in the sky. The Careers, angered at their inability to get a kill, attempt to track down the boy from Twelve. The girl from Eleven catches a hare.   
  
I leave the Donum Room - giving Blight an excuse about rest - just as the attendant enters. She’s a young girl, maybe around my age, with curly hair and bushy eyebrows that give me the expression of a frazzled squirrel. She jumps as she sees me, letting out a little squeak, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ shape.   
  
“Miss Yew,” she says - deliberately not pronouncing the ‘E’ at the end. The Capitol had me change it in ‘honour’ of my poison stunt. “I was just looking for you.”  
  
“Good timing, I suppose,” I shrug. “I’m assuming you’ll take me to Mr Heave

nsbee?”  
  
“Oh yes,” she nods, already ushering me toward the elevator. “He’s very excited to talk to you.”  
  
The ride up to the Gamemaker’s floor doesn’t take long, but it feels like hours with the attendant’s constant blabber. I feel like I know her whole life story already - her name is Cheri, her favourite tribute this year is Johanna, and she has three cats back home. She’s just about finished a story about how one of the three - very originally named Paws - stole her neighbours pet goldfish when we arrive at the door. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve never been more uncomfortable.   
  
“When Johanna wins, tell her I’m a big fan,” Cheri pipes up, as my hand grasps the handle. I give her a forced smile.  
  
“Will do.”  
  
The inside of the room is the antithesis to my meeting with Cohen. While that room had been long, cold and imposingly interpersonal, this one feels all-too intimate. The walls are painted a light blue, and there’s barely enough space for two sofas, let alone the small table between them. Sat on one of them is a man, a strikingly ordinary man for Capitol standards. He must just be approaching middle age, with a receding hairline and a sightly too-tight suit. As he sees me, he stands up.  
  
“Miss Yewe,” he says. “What a pleasure to meet you.”  
  
“As is mine, Gamemaker Heavensbee.” h  
  
“Plutarch is fine,” he gestures towards the seat. “Please, take a seat.”  
  
I feel a chill rush over me as I do, suddenly very aware of the position I’ve been placed in. I risk a quick glance above me. What kind of cameras have they placed in here?  
  
“Now, Miss Yew,” he begins. His voice is soft, almost friendly; and for the first time in a long while, I miss my father. “I’m sure you’re well aware of why you’re here.”  
  
“I am,” I echo.  
  
“And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of how important this meeting is?”  
  
“You don’t."  
  
“Good,” he smiles. Warmly. “Now then. Do you have anything to tell me?”  
  
For a moment, I freeze. Seize up. It’s easy to say the words; both Blight and Caesar have had conversations that deem enough conviction from the Capitol. But can I really do it? Even for Johanna? I think of Blight and his tired eyes, and how hard he _tries._ I think of Cecilia’s rage. _She didn’t deserve to die._ Is it really worth sparing Johanna if it will be worth so many more deaths?  
  
Don’t I want this to stop.  
  
“No,” I say. “I’m afraid not.”  
  
Plutarch looks at me, carefully. “Are you sure?”  
  
“I am.”  
  
And then, he does something strange. Instead of stand up and walk out, he reaches into his briefcase and brings out a small disk. Examines it for a moment, and presses something on it. Smiles, and places it back into his bag.  
  
“Hazel, while we talk, I would like you to smile. Act as though we’re engaged in some small talk, or as if we’re making a positive deal.”  
  
“What?” Curiosity briefly flickers across my face, and I try to disguise it with a smile.  
  
“We don’t have long. I’m very grateful you didn’t betray Blight, Hazel. That’s a very good mark on your record.”  
  
“Blight? You _know_?”  
  
“Of course. Our members are everywhere. Don’t worry, nobody in the Capitol will hear this. I'll tell Cohen and Snow that you really do know nothing.”  
  
“You’re one of them?” This silly man in his ill-fitting suit is a rebel?   
  
“I am. And you just passed the test. Congratulations, Hazel. We’ll be in contact.”  
  
“Wait! What about Caesar?”  
  
Plutarch frowns. “Caesar?”  
  
“He said some things, the other day. Could have sounded rebellious."  
  
“I don’t know anything about that,” he rubs his hand across his chin, as if in deep thought. “Perhaps Snow did plant a red herring.”  
  
“I don't understand,” I say. It’s hard to keep a smile plastered on my face when my mind is racing with a million different thoughts. “So, you're a rebel? And so is Blight? And why did you pick me? What test?”  
  
“So many questions,” Plutarch shakes his head, amused. “Blight said you’d be curious. This is how we gauge victors, Hazel. I’m afraid I can’t stay long."  
  
“What about Johanna?”

“I’ll bring Caesar up. Whether it’s a red herring or not, it might be enough for them to keep their end of the bargain up. If it wasn’t planted, our good talk show host will be in need of some re-education. Now, I really must go, Hazel. Needs must.”  
  
It feels like it just a second for the whole thing to be over, and then Plutarch is gone, and I’m alone in the room. _What was that? Plutarch Heavensbee is a rebel? I passed?_ It feels like a million thoughts swim through my head at once; shock at the outcome, glee at passing whatever trial they gave me, fear for Johanna’s safety. I sit in that room for what feels like hours, until I realise how drooping my eyelids have become and how late it is.  
  
It takes a long time to fall asleep, and longer to stay asleep, with all the thoughts running through my mind, but eventually I succeed in gettingfew hours of shuteye. And in the morning, just as I expected, a small letter has been slipped under my door.   
  
_We’ll wait. Cohen.  
  
_ And they do. For days. Five days, while the Capitol gets bored, the Careers kill the boy from Twelve and Titus terrorises his hunting ground. Five days, until Johanna suddenly has the brightness returned to her eyes, and decides to climb down the mountain.  
  
And then, I know they’re ready to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update! I'd pitched to write a show for a performance society at my uni, and got the role! I've been working hard on that, but now that the script is done, I can put my full attention on this! Hope you like this chapter!


	18. freefall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gamemakers act.

**CHAPTER 18  
  
JOHANNA** ****

The mountain is angry.  
  
I feel the tell-tale shake of the ground hours after I’ve already set off. My first instinct is to grab my axe - a futile attempt to do something against enemies that I can’t harm with any weapon. The tremor begins as something small; rippling through the earth, like a stone thrown into a pond. Instinctively, things seem to burst into slow motion. My eyes dart around for any sign of a stampede of angry mutts heading in my direction, but nothing comes bursting through the dense foliage. The tremors beneath my feet grow just the smallest bit stronger. I take a sharp breath of the cool, mountain air. _Think, Johanna. Think.  
  
_It clicks in my head just a second too late. The seismic activity beneath the ground, further up the mountain-the rumbling of the ground - it all meshes into one, very tall, very rapid sea of white that crests like a wave over the treetops in my direction.  
  
I let out a scramble of words that might be considered a curse, and break into a run. The cornucopia is a good bet for safety, but I’m still half a day’s travel away and there’s no way I can outrun an avalanche for that long. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember the few that we’ve had back in Seven. I’m not unfamiliar with them; they’re common in the winter months, but never so unpredictable. Never so big.  
  
Something goes flying past me, as for a second I’m worried I’m being pursued not just by the Gamemakers, but by other tributes. Whirling around, there’s a sense of security that comes from the sight of animals fleeing the woodland with me, skittering and sliding down the steep slope downwards. I continue pushing forwards, but in my haste to gauge my surroundings, my boot makes contact with a stray tree branch, and I go tumbling. It’s not far, and not steep, but I feel the old wound on my arm rip open, and a gash on my temple floods with blood. Wiping as much of it as I can away to see, I keep running, cursing at being slowed down even the smallest amount.  
  
A canon fires, so deafeningly audible above the roar of the avalanche above me that I’m sure it could be heard miles and miles away in the Districts. The wave seems to be moving far slower than the natural avalanches I’m used to, and I wonder if the Gamemakers are toying with us. Seeing who can outlast the others and make it to the safety of the other mountain. Perhaps there’s some kind of trap lying on the other end too, luring us into the narrow mesh of the valley, where we can duke it out between ourselves. Hand tightening on my axe, I make a silent vow to not let go. If I’m dying, it’s kicking and screaming. Not by being bashed in by a pathetic wall of snow. 

There’s a break in the treeline, where I catch a glimpse of the cornucopia, glistening on it’s rocky beach. To my front and right is more woodland; a safer bet to the bottom, though slower. To my left is a winding slope of rock, with a narrow pathway that zigzags down the mountain side. I’ll get down faster. I might also fall.  
  
My feet scramble, split between two decisions. The rumble of the avalanche gets stronger. I choose left.  
  
The pit of my stomach dislikes the decision, sinking downwards like the rumble of snow above me as it sees the drop below. But, I stay steady, keeping my hands and feet as close to the jagged stone face of the mountain without slowing me. I feel surprisingly calm as I edge my way down, and a small part of me feels almost at home in the bare, empty air. For a second, I’m reminded of how it feels to sit at the top of the redwoods, deep in Seven’s loneliest camps. I’d only been once, a trip with the school to prepare us for the shifts we would have to take once we turned seventeen. From up there, I’d felt so blissfully, peacefully alone, that it was almost like the Capitol, and the Districts, and the Games didn’t even exist.  
  
They do, however. The avalanche makes sure to remind me.  
  
And so, I keep running as fast as I can. The sound is almost deafening, and I can’t tell what is ringing in my ear and what is the rushing of snow and rock and timbre. Another canon fires, and for a moment I feel a spark of hope. Surely, after last year, the Capitol has had enough of the Gamemakers employing their murder tactics. Surely, they want to see _us_ kill one another.  
  
It’s not my thought that trips me up, because the avalanche does slow. It slows in the unnatural way that all Gamemaker traps do; all at once, like someone’s pressed a ‘stop’ button in some clean, white room somewhere. I stop just as suddenly, gasping for breath as if my lungs have shrunken to half their size, heaving and spluttering down the side of the gap below. What does trips me up is the ear piercing scream that comes from just ahead of me. It’s a girl’s. A raw, ripping sound which takes the place of the avalanche as ringing in my ear. It seems like everything stops to listen to it, and my heart does a funny thing where it skips three beats, and my brain tells me to run again.  
  
_It’s not Twine. She’s dead. It’s not her. It’s not him.  
  
_I can’t stop my feet from moving to run, and so I fall.  
  
-  
  
I swear to myself, I will never complain about feeling pain ever again, because nothing could compare to this. Every bone in my body feels like it’s been beaten by a sledgehammer. My skin is crawling with flares of agony, and my head seems to have been implied by a million different shards. As my eyes drift in and out of focus, I find myself staring out into a shocking blue sky. I’m lying on my back, somewhere. If I focus to my left, I can make out most of the rock face I’d been climbing down, and high above - but not _too_ high - the tell-tale path of my body’s descent.  
  
So, I must have found myself at some kind of ravine on the way downwards. It’s a brilliant stroke of luck that I didn’t hit my head hard enough, let alone that the ravine exists in the first place, but the blanket of snow I find myself in must have been heavy enough to cushion most of the damage. Still, I’ve seen enough people fall from trees to know that an injury to the back can be devastating.  
  
First call of action. I try to clench my fingers in my left hand into a fist. It takes a moment, everything is so _slow_ and _painful,_ but they cooperate. That’s a good sign. Next, I try to move my legs. Again, the agony is nearly unbearable, but it’s possible. I lie there, for the next hour, coaxing every one of my limbs into function again. Nothing’s broken - a bruised rib and maybe a concussion, if I’ve been unlucky - but I can barely sit up without screaming in pain. Fortunately my backpack survived the fall, and my axe lies a few feet away, if I’m able to reach it. I’m hungry, and thirsty, and everything is _terrible,_ but I’m alive.  
  
I don’t know when the tears start, or even why I begin to cry. I’ve never been much of a crier - not before I was reaped, anyways, and even that was all intentional. But the tears come, hot and fast, and it doesn’t take long before I’m gasping for air. I try my best to stuff my fist in my mouth to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t do much except prolong the awful sobbing that has been caught in my chest for days on end now. I know I’m on camera and I know this makes me look weak and undesirable, but right now, I could care less.  
  
It feels like hours until dusk sets. I remain, lying there, eyes blank up at the sky. Sometime between my fall and my crying fit, I managed to drag myself closer to the wall, hoping to keep with some of the remaining shreds of warmth from the dwindling sun. My backpack lies propped behind me like a makeshift pillow, and my axe lies at my side. It’s a miracle it stayed with me in one piece, and I count my blessings, holding it close like it’s my ticket back home. For all I know, it might as well be.  
  
Though I do nothing but stare at the sky, the sound of the anthem and the bright projection beamed onto the darkness manages to make me jump. The first face in the sky is Titus. I blink, sharply, as if willing my brain into making sure this isn’t an illusion. But _no,_ that’s him. Plain, unremarkable face, shaggy brown hair. Are they sure this is Titus in the sky, and not some copy? Where are the wild, untamed eyes and skin stained with gore? Where is the trembling body, the matted nest of locks? It seems, almost as quickly as the face appears, it vanishes again. Even the Capitol refuse to give him glory.  
  
_He’s dead. He’s dead._ I’m safe. I’m okay.  
  
The other casualty to the mountain is the girl from 10. Almost unremarkable in her death, compared to Titus, though I recognised the shaven head and intense brown eyes as hers. And then, just like that, she’s gone, and the sky is dead.  
  
Two gone today. One yesterday. Twine, the girl from Five, the girl from Two. Twelve at the bloodbath. Six of us left. I count them off on one hand as I lie, struggling for breath against the shooting pain that runs up my body. Love and Paris from One, the boy from Two. Circe from Four. Me. The girl from Eleven. That’s it. Five to go. Eleven will be an easy kill, and but it depends on if the Careers will turn on themselves before turning to us. I am counting on everything I have that it's the latter.  
  
I know I should find somewhere to rest tonight - here on the floor I’m in the open and susceptible to hypothermia, but the pain is too much. Instead, I can’t seem to focus on anything but what’s right in front of me. Snow, scuffled and tousled from my fall. A plain, grey rock face. A silver parachute.  
  
_A silver parachute!_ It must have been sent during the anthem, where nobody would be able to track me. With the last ounce of energy I have, I manage to pull myself up for the last few feet I need to grasp it in my hand. It’s a small thing - a vial, maybe - that rattles as I grasp it. Wrapped around it is a small sheet of paper. I’m about to toss it aside into my pocket - maybe keep it as a fire-starter - when I notice the ink, slightly bleeding from the snow. Pulling it flat as fast as my shaking hands permit, my eyes devour the words.  
  
' _For the pain. Only two a day, remember Ainsley? See you soon - H’  
  
Hazel. _I let out a shaky breath and pull the cap off the bottle, letting a single round pill fall into my hand. By my guess there must be a dozen or so, enough to get me through a week. This must have cost a fortune, maybe more. The message is simple. _There are people rooting for you. We’re waiting for you.  
  
_Fuck. I miss _Hazel._ I must be desperate to get home.  
  
“Thank you," I breathe, tipping the pill into my mouth dry. It isn’t like the dry, gross stuff packed with bitter herbs that we get in Seven. This is sweet, almost like sugar. I let it linger on my tongue for a second before swallowing.“Thank you, Hazel.”  
  
It doesn’t take long for the medicine to kick in, but it’s not soon enough. I have to breathe a sigh of relief as the pain leeches from my bones like smoke into the air. I hate the Capitol with every fibre of my still-shaking being, but right now, I could give my sponsors a hug.  
  
There’s not much sense making out of the gully in the dark, and I'm pretty certain the Gamemakers won’t send more tricks after us today, so I start out by finding somewhere to sleep. I’m about halfway through excavating a semi-cave in the side of the wall when the third cannon goes off.  
  
It makes me jump back, nearly slipping and falling back into the snow. Another one? Today? I’m about to count my lucky stars when I hear the wail coming somewhere to my left. And it’s _close._ Real close.  
  
It's a man - a boy, more specifically - who screams and cuts off, as if aware very quickly where he is. My eyes narrow and my heart rate increases tenfold. There’s someone with me, in this gully.  
  
_Is it worth it, Johanna?  
  
_I grab my axe and head off into the night. 


	19. chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johanna meets someone in the ravine.

**Johanna**

“They won’t take her body until you leave, you know?"  
  
The boy looks up from where he’s kneeled. Beside him lies the crumpled body of Circe from Four, sprawled out like a chewed-up dog toy. He frowns, and I can see the gears turning in his head. I reckon a Career from Two has far more important things to worry about that recognising a pitiful outer-District girl. I’ll give him a pass. I don’t remember his name either.  
  
“Which one are you?” He asks. “Didn’t you die the other day?”  
  
“That was Twine,” I say. We stand, a few metres apart, attempting to get a read on the other. Neither of our eyes meet, both locked in on the weapons in the opposite’s hand. His spear would slice through me before I could get close enough to even attempt to use the axe. “I’m Johanna. From Seven.”  
  
“You’re the one who cried at the parade,” he remarks. In the dim light I can just barely make out the bruised black-and-blue of his skin. “I’m Chess. Where’d you get the axe?”  
  
“Your district partner. I killed her.”  
  
I see him frown again, as if trying to process the words. He must have hit his head or something if he fell, because the words come in slightly too jumbled. “Wasn’t that the brute from Six?”  
  
“No. He’s dead. Just now.”  
  
“How’d you do it?”  
  
“With my knives,” I gesture at my belt. “And those geysers. It was mostly her own fault.”  
  
Chess shakes his head. “I’m not surprised. We told her not to go off on her own.”  
  
“You’re not upset?”  
  
“Nah. She was a bitch. You did most of us a favour.”   
  
“But,” I gesture at Circe’s body. “You’re upset about that one?”   
  
He avoids my hand, eyes fixated far from her body. His mouth is pulled into a thin, tight line and it takes a long time before he responds. “You’re not really a crybaby, are you?”  
  
“What tipped you off?” I raise an eyebrow. 

“Is all of our conversation going to comprise of questions?”  
  
“Maybe,” I shrug. The spear remains steady in his hand. Why haven’t either of us attacked yet? He seems disoriented enough, I could just _do_ it. But something seems to hold me back. “I’m surprised your buddies aren’t around here.”  
  
“They’re back at the camp. Circe and I were doing the perimeter sweep to see if we could find any stragglers when the avalanche happened. We were nearly at camp when the snow caught up with us. If I hadn’t landed on top of her, I would’ve been dead too. And they’re not my _buddies_.”  
  
“I thought all you Career types banded together,” I say.   
  
“They’re _One._ It’s complicated. Look - I don’t expect you to understand.”  
  
“Because I’m from Seven?” I raise an eyebrow. “How many kills have you guys made since the bloodbath?"  
  
“I killed the boy from Twelve.”  
  
“You killed an underfed boy from the poorest district. Congratulations. I killed your district partner. I think I’m winning.”  
  
To my surprise, Chess lets out a small bark of laughter. “You play a good game, Johanna.”  
  
“When are we getting this over with?” I ask. My grip on the axe is still painful. “Either you kill me, or I’m a step closer to getting out of this place. Both are better than my current situation.”  
  
“I don’t know,” he frowns. “Brutus is probably yelling at the screen right now, telling me to slice you open and be done with it. But I didn’t like killing that boy from Twelve.”  
  
 _Fuck._ A Career with a conscience. I let my arm drop slightly. I really can’t kill him now.   
  
“Brutus is your mentor, right?” For a moment I contemplated telling him I didn’t like killing his district partner either, but that wouldn’t fly with the Capitol. This boy’s already cut his chances at winning with those words. “Have you gotten anything from him?”  
  
“Some fire-starters and an extra spear,” he shrugs. “Love and Circe got most of the sponsor gifts this year. You?”  
  
“This coat. Some painkillers for my fall,” I smile slightly. Let him know I’m valuable. “Love and Circe aren’t the only girls the Capitol favours this year.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “So you think you’re on par with Love?”  
  
“I think Love has a very high opinion of herself. And if she didn’t see me coming, she’d be fucked.”  
  
Chess grins. He has a nice smile; not too toothy or cocksure. I could see the Capitol eating someone like him right up. “What about Paris?”  
  
“What _about_ Paris? I don’t know anything about him.”  
  
“He’s good with knives. A bit of a dick. Fast.”  
  
“I’m good at throwing axes fast.”  
  
“How do I know you’re not lying?”  
  
“Do you really want to test that out?” I hold up the axe again. Chess raises an eyebrow, but I can see the way his grip tightens on the spear. _Got him._ “Point taken."  
  
“So, if you can kill them both so easily, why haven’t you taken me out?” He asks. “ _Johanna?_ ”  
  
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re stuck in here,” I gesture up at the narrow, rocky gorge we stand in. I’d sussed out my surroundings to the best of my ability on my walk, and these walls are far to high to scale solo. “We need each other if we want to get out.”  
  
“Right,” he sticks his spear into the ground and gestures with his other hand out towards the space. His eyes narrow in a barely-hidden wince, and I can tell he’s hurting. “What do you suggest, then, since you’re such an expert?”  
  
I click my tongue and survey our surroundings. It’s dark, and a lot of the rock is covered with ice, making it hard to climb up. There’s only a small bit, a few metres back when I came from, which appears sheltered enough from the sleet. Just up near the top, barely, but I can make out a small divot where I could fit my feet. _Aha.  
  
_ “You help me up there,” I point. “Once I’m up I use my rope to help you down.” Chess’ mouth twists. “Why don’t you look convinced? You’re strong enough to carry me, aren’t you? Or are you not a Career after all?”  
  
“How do I know you won’t leave me down here?”  
  
“You won’t,” I smile. “Come on."  
  
For what it’s worth, Chess follows after me without much hesitation. He takes one last look as Circe’s body, paler then the snow, and seems to want to say something, but whatever internal struggle that happens, my side wins and he steps forwards With his spear strapped to his back, I can see he has a lot less supplies than I thought. A single black bag, with enough to maybe carry a sleeping bag and a bottle of water. I raise my eyebrows. No wonder the Careers never make it when their food is destroyed.   
  
“I can probably get you on my shoulders,” Chess says, once he’s gauged the height. “It’ll hurt like a bitch though. Dunno how badly the fall hurt me."  
  
“You’re alive and walking,” I say. “Up and at em’!”   
  
He rolls his eyes, but drops his bag and spear, gesturing for me to follow his lead. It’s odd, being so close to someone. Especially not a Career boy from Two. The last person I was this close to was Twine. Suddenly, I catch another flash of her body, beaten to a pulp. A take a deep breath to steady myself.  
  
“Second thoughts?” Chess grins.   
  
“Fuck you.” I say, and place my foot on his outstretched hand. He lets out a grunt of pain as I clamber onto his back, and I can feel all his muscles and tendons tensing up under my weight. I know exactly where to step, but I take my time with the action. Career boys can survive with a little bit of agony, for all I care. Builds character.  
  
Climbing this is like being back home, and I’m up with a few quick steps and a pull of my arm. Immediately I’m back up the side of the mountain I’d been climbing down, seeing the dizzying scope of the arena, now drenched in darkness. My fall had been a stroke of genius luck, by all accounts I should be dead. But the small gorge, stretching barely a few hundred metres seems to have been nestled in the exact right spot on the mountainside.   
  
“Johanna!” Chess calls. “You going to be a team player?”  
  
I should let him down there to die, but my hands reach into my bag on autopilot to grab the rope. I’ve already tied it and slung it down when I realise what I’m doing, and I have to bite down the curse that reaches my lips. Chess and the Capitol need to think this is on purpose.   
  
Chess is heavy, but it’s not much exertion to get him up to the side. He’s just reached up when the hovercraft appears to pick up Circe’s limp body from the inside of the gorge. Chess takes a deep breath, and I can’t help but feel some kind of pang for him.  
  
“She was my favourite of them all, you know,” he says, quietly. “Didn’t bullshit anyone.”  
  
Suppose that’s a good trait to have,” I shrug. “Listen, are we killing each other, or can I go?”  
  
“No, wait!” Chess’ voice is urgent. “What if we took on One together?”  
  
I laugh. “Bet that was your plan. Lure me to them so you can kill me together? No thanks, Chess.”  
  
“No, really,” he grabs my shoulder, and I swing around, axe inches from his face.  
  
“Touch me again and I’ll send you flying back down there.”  
  
“Johanna, I don’t care how good with an axe you are, if you take both of them on, you’re dead.”  
  
He might be right, but that doesn’t stop me from narrowing eyes and keeping the axe right there. I hadn’t thought of how I’d tackle the Careers. I guess I was just going to take it like the rest of the Games; as it came.   
  
“Circe and I were going to turn once it got to the final four. We’re pretty sure they were going to do the same. I can’t take them both either - not two trained tributes by myself. But with you, maybe both of us would stand a chance.”  
  
“And we’d duke it out after they’re dead?” It’s not a bad idea. Maybe thinking strategy isn’t the worst idea. “What about Eleven?”  
  
Chess frowns. “She’s still alive?”  
  
“You don’t keep track, do you?”  
  
“Let’s hope she’s a goner by then. Otherwise, whichever one of us that’s still alive can deal with her. Deal?” He stretches out his palm. His spear is still strapped on his back. I could kill him so easily right now. “Johanna.”  
  
Fuck. I lower my axe and take his hand. “Deal.”  
  


* * *

  
  
As it turns out, Chess isn’t bad company.  
  
We talk for a bit as we head back up the mountainside and to the woods for the night. I learn his parents work in the quarries and he enrolled in Two’s training academy when he was fourteen because it cost less than going to school.   
  
“It was between me and the other guy, but he had a few too many anger issues, so they chose lucky me,” he finishes, just as we reach the treeline. Even at the threshold of greenery, I feel myself relax. “What about you?”  
  
“Who gives a shit. Let’s find somewhere to stay for the night,” I say. Behind me, Chess stops. “What?”  
  
“Nothing - it’s just, fuck, I’m in pain.” Taking a second look at him, I can properly take in the extent to his injuries. Bruised in a million shades, a bloody eye, slashes up and down his arms and legs. Probably some pretty fucked up internal stuff. I sigh, and grab my bag. “What’s that?”   
  
“Here,” I pull out Hazel’s pill capsule. “Take one, it’ll help with the pain.”  
  
Chess smiles again, but this time it’s not the same, cocksure smile he’d used in the ravine. It’s something softer. More genuine. His hand is gentle as he takes the pill. “Thank you, Johanna.”  
  
“Save it,” I snap, stuffing the bottle back in my bag. “Come on. We need rest.”  
  
“Sure there are none of those wolves here?”  
  
“Wolves?” I frown.  
  
“Yeah, ran into a few on the second night. Fucking nasty Mutt things. Scared the socks off of Love.”  
  
“Don’t know anything about that. I came across some nasty birds, though.”  
  
“Birds?” Chess laughs. “Would’ve thought you were tougher than that.”  
  
“Fuck off, Chess. Come on, before I regret not beheading you.”   
  
“You’d never!”  
  
“We’ll see…”  
  
  
  



	20. celebrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! So, so sorry it's been a hot minute, so much has happened since I last updated. I got cast in two shows, and a podcast I've been writing got greenlit, and I've seen my family for the first time in a year (thank you, Covid) so I've barely had time to sit and write. Don't worry though, I'm still raring to get this story complete, especially when we're nearing the final act!

**CHAPTER TWENTY - Celebrations**

**HAZEL**

Blight's breath hitches as Johanna drops the axe down to her side. I give him a glance, half-warning, half relieved. Despite the fact that she made it through the avalanche, and despite her new ally, I'm glad to know I'm not the only one feeling the sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach.

Still, once of us has to be the comforting one, so I steel myself and turn to him. His left hand is shaking; from nerves of the empty coffee pot sitting next to him on the desk, I can't tell. "She can handle herself. She's survived this long."

"I don't like that she gave him the pills," he remarks, running his non-shaking hand through his thick hair. "She needs them."

"By the way things are going, the Games will be over before they run out," I say. Those blasted pills. At the mention of them, the ever-growing pool of dread in my stomach seems to spill over. Despite it all; the sponsors, the donations from Seven, the personal visitation from some of the biggest celebrities the Capitol has to offer, I'm still going to be paying for years to come. Starting - of course - with a party tonight.

But it's not time for that. _Yet._

Blight huffs and looks down at his fingers, counting. "It's them, the pair from One and the girl from Eleven, right?"

I nod. "After today, I don't think the Capitol's going to interfere much more. They're going to want to let excitement build before the final fight. However they deal with Eleven, that's not our problem."

Blights nods, his eyes darting quickly behind us to Seeder. She's hunched over her screen so closely it looks like her bones have been fused to the machine. Her girl managed to avoid detection by camping just close enough to the Careers that they wouldn't expect her, but far enough on the other side of the lake to entirely avoid the avalanche. Lucky for her. Historically, tributes from Eleven don't last. Behind Seeder are Blight and Enobaria, who converse in hushed voices, eyes flickering every so often to Blight and I. Normally, we'd join them at their table, but right now, I don't think either of us are in much of a rush.

Eyes away from the screen, I do a quick survey of the room. I don't think I've ever seen it this empty before. Apart from the occasional attendant dotted around, all that's left are us, Seeder, and the pairs from One and Two.

"Is this what it's like? Being so close to a win?" I lower my voice so that the only person who can hear me is Blight.

"I've only made it this far three times," he says. The rest is unspoken. Once was me. The other two times, he was unsuccessful.

My attention draws back to the screen, where Johanna appears to have picked out a tree for the night. She lets her bag slip from her shoulders to the floor, making a soft crunch in the snow, but her axe remains in her hand. She may have let her guard down, but she hasn't lost it completely. _Attagirl_.

"You expect me to climb that?" Chess peers up into the foliage, grimacing slightly. The camera focuses on his face, and for the first time, I actually pay attention. Pierced eyebrow, dark skin, hair tied back. Handsome. Of course. When it comes to picking tributes, the Career districts know what the Capitol wants.

"What, like you're scared?" Johanna raises an eyebrow. "Upset you're not in your nice warm tent?"

"I can handle myself," he retorts. "I trained for this, remember?"

"And I trained too. In the art of climbing trees. Now come on. The ground absorbs heat. Unless you want to die of hypothermia before Love and Paris get you?"

"Fine. Ladies first."

"Exactly," Johanna grins wickedly, and gestures towards the tree. "Ladies first."

I can hear the laughs from the Capitol already. Next to me, I see Blight relaxing just the tiniest bit more. She's a pro.

"Didn't know you were such a bitch, Johanna," Chess retorts, but takes a moment to return her smile before hoisting himself up on the first branch. "You gonna take first watch?"

"As if I'd let you," she says, following up after him. I can't tell how much of their banter is for the cameras, and how much of it is actually them getting along. For both their sakes, I hope it's the former. "What're the odds that your buddies will come after us?"

"Pretty low," he says. "They need someone to guard the camp, but it's dangerous to go alone at night. It's more animals you'll be looking out for."

"Or Eleven."

"Or Eleven," he echoes. "But she's not much of a threat."

"Oh yeah?" Johanna raises an eyebrow, joining him on a thick enough branch. "Didn't you say the same about me?"

"Touché."

"Well, aren't those two a pair of delights?"

The foreign voice surprises me, and I whirl around from the screen so quickly that flecks of light dance in my eyes. I'm only disoriented for a moment, before I look up any meet the eyes of Finnick Odair, dressed like what I can only describe as a disco ball. _If_ disco balls barely wore any clothes.

"Finnick?"

"Hey," he looks me up and down, apparently surprised at my dishevelled appearance. "Mind if I steal Hazel for the rest of the night, Blight?"

"Why?" I frown.

"You and I are on the guest list for Emmeline Costa's party tonight, remember?"

"That's right now?" I stand up, dizzying myself. I don't think I've stood up in hours. " _Shit,_ I haven't even thought about it."

"Figured," Finnick lets out a dry laugh. "I've got a change of clothes for you in the car. Come on."

I look back at Blight but he waves his hand. "You made the call, I've got it. I'll save you from those two's awful banter."

I give him a nod and a grateful smile, before Finnick practically drags me out of the room. Stepping out into the elevator, I blink dizzily at the lights.

"How long's it been since you've been out of that room?" He remarks.

"Goodness knows," I say. "Though going to a party instead isn't quite my idea of fun. Surprised you're going too."

"You assume I _wouldn't_ be?" He says, dramatically clutching his hand to his chest, before letting it go. "No. Emmeline lent me some money. For Circe. And even if - y'know - a deal's still a deal."

"Oh," I feel my heart sink. I'd completely forgotten. "I'm sorry, Finnick."

"Don't sweat it. Two years in a row would have been pushing it. _Besides,_ " he shakes his head, wiping away the flicker of grief in his eyes with a simple blink. The elevator doors open and we step though into the carpark, where a sleek black car waits. "Johanna sounds like she's going to make it."

"I wouldn't say anything yet."

"Oh, come on. Have you seen the headlines? I'm pretty sure the Capitol will riot if she doesn't win. She's their darling, Hazel. Don't think I've seen them this excited since, well, _me_."

"Here you go, blowing yourself up again." I roll my eyes, accepting an Avox's invitation to the open car door. Finnick slides in next to me, and the door closes, windows dimmed, shielding us from the outside world. Immediately I feel a spark of anxiety at being separated from my monitors, my access to Johanna. Taking a deep breath as the car lurches forwards, I block it away. This is all part of the job. "So, where's my outfit?"

Finnick leans back into the boot, rummaging around for a moment before fishing out a sleek red number. It's form-fitting, a high neck that ends clasped with a gold neckpiece and sleeves that cap with gloves, covering my whole arm. The same, however, can't be said for my lower half. I raise an eyebrow.

"Wasn't my decision," he says. "But you can't say it won't look good."

"Whatever you say," I take it in my lap. "Turn around."

"You don't think I can handle a scantily clad woman? You do know you're talking to Finnick Odair, right?"

"I don't care if you're Finnick Odair or President Snow, you're _turning around."_

"Alright, alright," he says, scoffing a little. "Such a prude."

"Excuse me for being dignified," I respond, though I'm smiling too. Perhaps, I think, for the first time since these Games have begun.

* * *

As far as Capitol parties go, this isn't the worst possible. Everyone who's anyone seems to be milling around, but rather than prying questions about me; my love life, who I'm wearing, what my favourite type of tea is, the questions revolve around Johanna. Ever the master of bullshit, Finnick dances around me, helping me weave a careful tapestry of lies about the girl with the axe. As bothersome and dreary as it is, I can't help but feel a bit pleased with the outcome. At least I'll get a few sponsors out of this ordeal.

Emmeline Costa, of course, makes an appearance. It's her birthday, after all, and the 21st of the Capitol's up-and-coming starlet is an event to be reckoned with. Luckily she doesn't spend too much time talking up Finnick - or, in my case, pretending I don't exist - and quickly gets whisked away by a flurry of guests and gifts, leaving us to our own devices.

"Snow'll be on my case about her, now she's single." Finnick says to me, in a rare moment where we've been left alone. It's been a long-running trick of ours to station ourselves by the non-alcoholic drinks, where, naturally, nobody goes.

"No surprise there," I say, pulling down my dress for the hundredth time tonight. "Sorry about that one. Sounds like it won't be the over-and-done-with deal."

"It never is, with mine," he shakes his head. "They always want to _talk._ It's almost like they want to do it more than any of the _other_ stuff."

"Shame."

"Ah, just the Victors I was looking for."

Both of us turn at the same moment to the woman standing before us. She's a youthful looking woman - though you can never tell with Capitolites - with delicately braided orange hair and a deep black dress. Internally I sigh at the prospect of another tedious conversation, but Finnick's face breaks out into a smile.

"Hazel. This is Fulvia Cardew."

"I don't believe we've met," Fulvia holds out her hand, which I take. She smells of perfume, but not too sweet or overpowering. "It's a pleasure."

"The pleasure's all mine."

"Fulvia works with Plutarch Heavansbee," Finnick says, casually. For a split second, my heart skips a beat and spare a quick look at him. Would Finnick? No. He couldn't be.

"I've heard good things about you, Hazel," Fulvia says. "I host _parties_ from time to time. Smaller than this, of course, but eventful all the same. You can ask Finnick. He's been to a few."

"Have you?" I say, feigning interest, but glaring at him as pointedly as I possibly can. _Finnick's_ involved in this too? Who else is? How many people?

"Fulvia is a wonderful host. I've been telling her to invite you for a long time."

"He has," Fulvia smiles. "I'm holding one after the Games are over. Just so I can catch some of the Victors for the last time before they go home. I'd love for you to come, if you'd like?"

So, this is it. This is the rebellion I've been waiting for.

"Hazel?"

"Yes," I say. "Yes, that sounds lovely."


End file.
